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St. Mary’s River Drift.

November 9, 2007

From the rear of the dinghy, I watch
your back, blue shirt flapping, the outward
lilt of your arm, the fly-line as it arcs
stopping in mid flick then
fluttering back to the river. From
the rear of the dinghy, my bare
feet hang over the side, dangling toes
trace rock shadows
my fishing rod at rest
along the ledge
rod tip bobbing on the surface. While
you wait and hope I catch
a trout, I follow an osprey’s
course as it rides the
Rockies’ thermals. At
noon we lunch in a clearing on
logs the last visitors left
behind, here bear scat
dots our path, brown cows
browse the lanky grass and above the bellow of the rushing
stream we pay attention to sounds like twigs
snapping – bears prefer the odor of
women
– the guide says with
a laugh. How fluent your
pleasure in this domain
this meandering shoreline, a
seam on the map, the
boundary between here
and there, water and earth
catch and release.

Copyright © 2007

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