Received this dispatch from Cameron Scott, who works for Taylor Creek Fly Shop in Basalt, CO. He also has an MFA from the University of Arizona, and his work has appeared in a bunch of literary magazines you’ve never heard of. He’s fond of saying, “When I’m not fly fishing, I’m typically fly fishing. When I’m not writing poetry, I’m writing poetry.”
After a long winter of standing in horizontal snow and breaking ice out of guides, this time of year calls for a blue water or muddy water trip. I’m a fan of the muddy water. Thanks to Thomas Clennon and the first carp of the season on a dry fly, Highway 17, and rubber legs.
Miles upon miles of irrigation ditches,
trailer hippies and wasted truckers,
gator raisers, and ufo chasers,
leased farms and windowless houses.
We wade through the middle of it all
in search of golden scaled carp:
tough wallower, crawdad crusher, croaker,
warm water trash fish of my heart.
Give us a sign, be it in a ditch or pond,
shallow slough or pit: plumes of rising mud,
coffee can vibrations, submarine back,
sudden breaches toward the sun.
Without question, without questioning,
you are a forgotten renegade
drawing a long line of renegades behind you.