In The Who’s Who of the River

If you gather morels by a river, then

they’ll taste like that river. If you eat the morels

with trout, they won’t be redundant. But then again….

spring evenings I’ve watched the deer move themselves

along the margins of cottonwood groves. And mornings

I’ve noticed the nibbled stalks of morels. I must

have a word with these deer, perhaps of warning,

perhaps of advice. But what would it be? Trust?

Share? Shoo? In the who’s who of the river,

I’m afraid I’m rather low on the totem pole.

If you eat morels with deer, you’ll never

hear the end of it. You’ll have swallowed a whole

lexicon. You’ll be a walking refrain.

You’ll become a brain in a brain in a brain.

Walking on the outskirts,

you see an eagle standing on a tire

eating a big goldfish,

still alive, wet and flipping

under the talons.

You try to shoo it off, but

the bird won't budge.

Butch down at the Gas 'n Go

says it's a sign

that spring is coming early,

but he's always talking

about things being signs,

and, as you can see,

it's April and it's still snowing.

When you're guiding on the river

and the trout are hitting,

your clients tell you you're lucky

to live here, as if that's

some kind of tip.

After they go back

to wherever they're from,

you wonder if they think of you

sitting here in your shop.

No matter, you'd still be

tying these flies to look

like tiny nightmares,

waiting to see the eagle

again, and hoping

this time it's eating something

a little more appropriate?

A Water Pig Will Not Give Up

Times you bother water pigs

are times well wasted.

So spoke Uncle Walt

at the unbeknownst

edge of his grave.

Now, I choose early spring

to bother them.

That's when Uncle Walt did.

At the end of a finely tapered

tippet, a spring water

pig will become

immensely annoyed.

Again, that's how

Uncle Walt put it.

But as I implied,

the grave took him.

The water pigs are still here.

I've never seen a rainbow,

a cutthroat, brook or brown

look anything but serious.

A water pig will look funny,

especially when it's not.

It's scales designed for battle,

it's mouth a vacuum hose,

a water pig will not give up.

At least that's what

Uncle Walt said,

not knowing

at the time

that he soon would.

Captain Balloon

I often go fishing

with Captain Balloon.

He takes me to spots that are his.

He tells me to cast

where he knows

there are fish,

and when I don't catch them,

he does.

Captain Balloon,

a cigar in his mouth,

starts whooping

and calls me downstream

to watch him retrieve

a trout big as his arm

but I sulk in my hole and refuse.

I try to pretend

that Captain Balloon

is not catching a trout when he is.

When I snap off my fly,

Captain Balloon

says if you don't cast now, I will.

While I fumble

and fiddle, trying to tie

another fly onto my tippet,

Captain Balloon latches

onto a monster

and drags it up flopping before me.

Captain Balloon possesses a fly

that, regretfully, I don't possess.

It looks like a mucous drenched

hummingbird turd,

but it catches the fish

while my fly does not,

so I ask if perhaps

he might spare one.

When I get home,

I swear that I won't

go fishing with Captain Balloon

ever again,

but then the phone rings.

Want to go fishing?

Yeah, sure.

Emily Dickinson on the Gallatin

There's a certain Fly I use
On rivers--into March--
To imitate the several Moods--
Of water's tiny Hearts.

While the Sky turns--Gray to Blue,
This Season's perfect Tease
Will only work--when Robins swim
And Geese stand in the Trees.

As February's foil--it drifts
Against the melting Snow,
While April's Willows arch--Above
And Midges hatch--Below.

Its Feathers--turning in the Light
With Tinsel and Chenille--
Will match a Trout's mind--Word for Word--
If Words would make a Meal.

I tie it--in the morning Light--
With Threads made out of Moon
And fish it--till it's woven through--
The dappled Robes of Noon.

It was twice what I remembered

when I returned to those

glyphs the stoneflies make

with their dried husks on rocks

at the high-water mark.

Tiny called them dragon pretzels

before she drowned last spring,

but let's not go there.

The water isn't what

it used to be. Never was,

never will be. I heard that from

a drunk who said he caught

that thirteen pounder on the wall

down at The Lucky Loser.

I told him I was out of a job

and he said give me a quarter

and I'll tell you why I care,

then he tried to sell me postcards

of dead cops in car crashes.

Before he left, I told him there's

a fungus that grows in the dumps

around here that might cure

whatever it was he had

that made him act that way.

Sometimes I'll walk out

over the interstate and imagine

the oncoming traffic is headed

for another planet. Any more,

that's about the only way

I can get to sleep.