CASTING FOR A MYTH
—Katy Brown, Davis
If I close my eyes I can see my brother
—the fragile line—
see the fly land on the water—
slide down the riffles
toward the shadowed pool
below where I sit.
A large lichen-covered boulder
rises on the inside curve
of Cherry Creek—several hundred yards
above the old bridge. It is warm under me.
Clumps of elephant ears and snake grass
grow in the sandy gravel upstream.
on the smooth surface
just below where I perch.
He always cuts me a large green pixie-hat,
washes it in the cold stream,
puts it, dripping, on my head
to keep the sun off.
I smell the scent of mountain water,
the granite rock beneath me,
the pines and alders that grow along the bank.
My brother believes a monster brown trout
lives in the deep pool under the shadow
of this rock. He tries showing me:
but I can’t see it. Putting me,
fidgeting, on this rock,
guarantees that any fish
will dive for cover.
I finally understand:
it isn’t a fish that he’s after. . . .