I.
on the last sunday in april
during the final black slash between night and morning
speechless, we would crouch toward climb into the bronco.
doors thudding closed and the sudden pitch of the engine
briefly interrupted the sound of our separate thinking and
windows rolled down, the crisp unbreathed air filled our
sweatshirted universe.
and the scents of thermosed folgers and dewed earth
would swirl around us as we sliced through darkness
without passing any lit window, or other night movement.
leaving town and following our headlights through the hidden hills
awakeness mounted as the black leeched away to some other hemisphere
and ours sucked daylight from the stars.
we needed to be there before daybreak.
II.
and that sun did rise to above as we arrived.
the oblong lake cliffed in black basalt
and the soaring raptors were also above, and
pine trees threw their spiked scent
and the aspen quaked
as he backed down the launch
as though it were his own self reversing
and we were a small audience watching, waiting
and it was tedium before tedium,
waiting for the open water
and resenting the bright orange life preservers
and then: the stepping into the wavering boat
and then: pushing off finally
finally taking off.
III.
baiting the line with red orange yellow salmon roe
or sweet canned corn and
flipping the bail and with a thumb holding the line
and snapping the rod forward from the behind and
releasing the line at the precise moment and letting that hook soar.
casting is controlled joy: never whip too hard or you will throw your bait.
and then fullness:
the aluminum hull and water slapped hollow and
birds songed and breeze motioned the branches and
leaves and needles sounded symphony for us and
our eyes and our hands were tuned for that movement
small vibrations small twitches could be lightly weighted line snagging
or the nosing tentative nibbling of trout. rod tip dipping, heart pounding
wait: to see if it is a hit wait: when it is a strike
and then: set the fish
reel in, smooth out slack, raise rod firmly and
set it before that hook is swallowed. if a fish swallows the hook
it is a bad thing.
IV.
delirium.
hold that rod he made when you were born that blue rod he made for you
hold that your first your last rod at a degree, pointed toward the line and
never at the fish unless the line is tight and
maintain constant bend in that rod: reel in, apply tension, or allow line to slip,
the whirring ripping the noise uncoiling the racing away from death
if the tip ducks let line slip, maintain that angle but
if the fish takes off lower that rod
the one he made when you were born, that blue rod he made for you,
your first rod your last rod stay in tune
and remember: the tip section is there to absorb force
and frantic lunges of resistance. maintain constant pressure
strip the line and strip again, reel in, get the line tight
stripping and slipping and the fish will tire but this is play
this is the play this is it
if it jumps, bow to it, protect your leader, prevent that fish from falling back on tight
taught line and careful: a racing fish zig and zag, fight the urge to raise the rod,
play the play the zig
and land it.
get the net under the fish
lift the rod high
pull it gently into the net
flick the net and lift the net: you will rush dance in your head
but never dance out loud in a vee bottomed boat.
V.
you shimmer you cigar shaped bullet shaped twist of silver and blue green yellow green pink, white and black dotted beauty, we would place our thumbs under your jaw and fingers in your mouth and we would break your neck. we would use short sharp blades so that your pink flesh was not fouled as we removed entrails intact from this created slit. we scraped your blood line free rinsing rinsing in clean water cold water your water rinsing and marveling your cheeks, and wrapping you in wetted fern we would place you shaded in his battered his wicker his airy creel to keep you most pristine.
VI.
we sought rainbows in the springtime
in that stark stunning
black rocked
landscape, ravaged by epic floods.
magpies glid, and sage perfumed, and
pheasants crowed
in the evening as we drove home.
it was opening day of trout season.
VII.
gratitude.
lament.
