On the river my feet are washed with coolness.
We step between rocks; I find nothing 
ugly here. Even the moss is part
of the furniture–carpets the stones 
like a hand-woven rug alongside me.
The wooden frame of trees tunnels over
the water, deep blue in the shade, slate 
spotted, where coin shadows of leaves wait in
spells
of stillness on this stained-glass river
for the long footed insects to spin on them 
like spurs. Dragonflies wear their finest coats
for this occasion; magenta backed they skim
the rocks like nerves on fire.

Up to my hips
in Pit River wetness here, my calves
are lifeless flesh, crane legged awkward.
I move upstream but there are things I 
can’t see. I go toward my father who is
fishing ahead. He says, “Beneath you a
kingdom is feeding. Tiny bugs hatch
underwater, born all at once, one sweet
chance
to reach the surface.”

I can’t think him 
as old. Just a fish–a German brown 
who grew legs despite himself and
returns now and then to dip his soul 
back in the river; and I never knew
that rivers had rhythms. Around my father 
the water does not break but rakes itself 
out like a garden to the metronome
tick-tocking in his cast, the back and forth
rocking of his arm, laying flies
on the water. Shuffling from reedy banks, 
the tall slender grass shakes its tips
in the wind downstream. I follow his cast 
to a deep oval. I wait for the caved-mouth
of a fish to roll from the darkness and take the
fly.

Long shadows flicker below. Above
is my father with his rainbow trout.
For one moment in the sunlight everything
shines: pink scales, silver headed–
the fish. Silver curled through its lip
glints the hook. Golden fingered, my father
unhooking the hooked; golden fingered, my
father letting go.

I ask him, “Did you ever
keep a fish?”

“A long time ago,”
he says, “a long time ago.”