I come here for the wide open space,
Where the river flows across the valley
To the coastal lowlands.
.
This is where I wanted to be,
but now the reality of all this space
Bites hard.
.
A dying afternoon breeze swirls chilled gusts
Into my face, down my neck,
Into my bones.
.
Off west a big wall of fog rolls across the lowlands
Swallowing up everything.
A giant dark wave that might stifle the wind,
Or send it running in every direction.
.
Standing hip deep in the chilled water doesn’t help.
My legs have stiffened to stifle a shiver.
And I’m hopelessy hunched over
Like an old man worn by years of toil.
.
The water is still off-colored, just clear enough,
Seducing me with clear green edges,
Closer, now, the brown-tinged center hides the river,
Calling for a painfully methodical pace,
So things can see and be seen.
.
Here the river sweeps long against the bedrock cliff,
Tracing a classic slot for winter steelhead to sit.
Sitting and doing whatever they do.
Waiting?
.
Minutes ago, this water gave up a ten pounder to me.
Now I’m hunting for another.
.
Another grab at the fly, a quick swipe as the fly
Hangs down below me
In the deep seam at the edge of the slot.
.
The cliff along the far bank is overhung by ferns,
All dripping steadily into the sweetest water,
Like a dial tone maybe,
Waiting for the ring…
.
Another cast, another half step,
Repeat.
.
Another swipe.
.
Now the failing wind lets moments of glassy stillness
Cover everything
Just for a moment, before another push up the valley,
Announcing it’s coming by the ripples pushing up the long run.
.
A third tag, this time just a peck.
The cold gets forgotten
Just for a moment.
.
The fish rolls down below me, showing silver
Before disappearing back down,
Into the greenish brown mystery world where fish sit and wait,
Waiting for strange-looking concoctions
The quickest glance of feather and fur swimming past.
Shaken Rain 