by Scott Carles
Was this the hole,
where limestone walls shoulder the margin
between earth and sky?
He bends into the current,
casts about forgotten water thickened by rains.
Forgotten waters, patterns, faces—
even the name of this disease.
His fly skitters across the surface,
vees the liquid alluvium,
scatters shadows below birches.
He sets a foot where a memory
A speckled back breaks the barrier.
lift bamboo and line,
flick a loop upstream
settling the fly two feet beyond the rise
on the river’s wrinkles.
Perched upright it rides down,
The water’s skin dimples,
pulls the fly to a place
of fading shadows.
He teeters. Stares at the line
to etch an epitaph
into his memory.
Brings the shadow to hand.
He holds it at arm’s
length. Forgets. Slides
beneath the boundary.
Scott Carles is married and has two children. He teaches English to
sixth grade students at a public school in northern Utah where he lives.
He wanders the northern Rocky Mountains and Great Basin in search of
native cutthroat trout. His wanderings are found on his blog, Cutthroat