Spawning Season by Aidyn Smith

To and fro I threw the line, it's sheen catching

the sunlight and vanishing again into the clear water.

The pole felt like a great weight in my hand,

a tool of some peaceful slaying.

My hip high waders felt odd in the river,

the tiny waves lapping my thighs, feeling pressure

and relief in clear waters.

A marvelous trout is pulled from the river

in a distant time, one where my father

would don his boots and I would sit on shore.

I remember thinking how my father was

a crane, a hulking bird, his movements so fluid,

his focus so clear, like the water he stood in.

But his movements became stiff in time,

painful, until he could no longer fish.

Soon, my father went the way that all fish must,

upstream and to a shady pool of round rocks.

As I remember this, I am struck by the calmness

of the river.

How serene this clear water seems.

I think of this and my line goes taught.

I work the pole like a miner works his pick in the quarry,

as my quarry is pulled ever closer.

As I reel it in, I can see the slender,

brown fish at the other end.

I pull it out and return to shore.

I clean my dinner, braise it with some rosemary

over and open flame and I lay down to rest.

Brown and small, it still filled me

and I can't help but think that

it was a good catch.