Self-Portrait as Fly Fisherman

He stands still and the creek does not—
a waist-deep shortcut

to nowhere. An arm, bare
to the elbow, nudges the morning

fog. A thread of water-
shine tongues the air. The impossible

reach, his expectant watch.
O to hold in your careful grip

this perilous truth and finesse
its length into a grace: longing

is a long line stretched
and taut in the current—hidden,

wet and waiting. The tug
of a phantom bite. Longing

is the second cast. And the next.
And the next. An arm reaching

beyond reach as long as day-
light allows—