NEAR THE FALLS

His gray line,

fed through gnarled fingers,

will feather back on looping grooves.

Arthritic hips and knees

will dip and spasm

in the undulating rhythms of an old angler

trolling the sun-danced river.

A hand-tied orange fly

will whisper off his oiled reel,

kiss and skim icy water.

A stuttered north wind will scatter

forgotten passions.

A silver trout will graze against his legs,

a grazing he’ll no longer sense

through faded green waders

that drag and slant past

water-tumbled rocks.

He’ll cast and recast

farther into converging currents.

The orange fly, splitting the chill air,

will shoot past

midstream deadfall,

bounce seamless granite, jerk

airborne, circle an oblong loop before

a quick sting downstream.

Numbing currents will dull old regrets.

In gathered dusk he’ll tack

ancient legs into

The down-rushing. The muffled roar will draw

his settled mind.

A slow smile will rise to pale eyes

that came to know what he can’t see.

Flicking his line

in a silent arc over serrated falls

he’ll watch how the orange fly,

slipping free,

welcomes the roaring edge.