River's Edge

Our fishing guide thought I wanted to catch fish – that I had come to the River’s Edge to catch a mottled Brown for a mantled photograph. I should have told him that I cared not for a fish for my father had recently passed away and I held his rod of beautiful bamboo. I had come only to cast into my memory’s mist – to hear the line sing my father’s song and again his voice arise from a riffle. Many mornings he held my hand to teach me to find the rhythm of the line then extend to mirror and become the water. From a rock, I cast into pocket water where a Brown watches but then chooses not to strike the timelessness of the past, at the river’s edge.