Fly fishing, Golden Gate Park

The line whips like water spray,

like air itself

drawing Ss onto the wind.

Even with roll casts,

using the adhesive water

as catapult,

you see the curves

in every twitch of the sprung line,

in this game of tag where you

strike water, trick fish

and win with hook in lip.


My friend, the fly fisher, jokes

about using little band aids

before sending them back, bruised,

betrayed by feathers, fur, cork, hook.

He has the deft hand of a man who knows

how to see stonefly, dragonfly nymph,

honeybees, the difference between

swirls of currents and ripples of fishtail.


I’m learning to hear

the change in music three fish bring

to the waters around my boots,

to my own currents of blood

as I sense prey, knowing one day

I will die, no catch and release for me,

only hawk talons

taking me upward

into the strong and terrible air.

Leave a Reply