Oliver Round’s wading boots grip granite flat-topped like slate.
My black Lab, Sadie, keeps quiet, a great blue heron roosting on
the deadfall by the frozen pond. I only dream of my friend’s
fishing. The heron crouches while dog and I trudge snow toward
the medical building in zero-degree dark. Oliver hunkers, casts.

With a perceptive gaze, my friend studies a plunge pool, water
droplets shimmering like snowflake shards. Winter is over now,
but I feel chilled. Oliver’s wrist lifts three-weight line, a midge
cast back, forth, alighting on calm water like a fleck from the
sky. Winter’s wear on the familiar hills is a lasting habitation.

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