Another day alone in field, he thought of mountain streams: rainbows in the riffles, flash of sides in swim holes and holds and steady course—move to fly in strike—bend of the rod taught of the line—take of the fish in run—his controlling of line’s give, in strips and spooling of the reel; turn of the fish, regain of the line as given—in reel and retrieve of hand-drawn strips; sweeping path of the dying fight in arc-swing over width of stream, each arc shrinking, smaller, closer, nearer to landing in the net.
Hiking the river’s path, higher and upward, under cliff faces of stone falling steep away where river cut—deeper still—into holes beneath the rock. Streamers then, a sinking line for fish in the deep—ones not of light but of shadow and hide—browns that preyed and owned the deeper holes. A different fight, not of fast and speedy runs, but a power that dove into deep; the rush, the race, then sudden limp nothing when fine of the line was broke; the times you brought them all the way; hooked cannibal-jaw—strange and alien as tribes of men, the same—who ate their own, growing great and strong as the worshippers of Baal who killed their own for power and dominions in this world.
These, he did not release, but destroyed for what they were; wrapping in foil, stuffing with onions and herbs and eating in atonement and ceremony; darkness rid of monster so the young might have a chance.
Float of the leaves upon stream’s face: ambers, auburns, scarlet’s deep; weightless in their floating by; then circle catch in fix of a current, around and round, fixed in a path, absorb of the stream bearing in weight until pulled under making bed in pool of the stream bed’s floor.
Rise of the hills, colored as well, but past the height and falling away into soon of winter gray. Soon, but not today. And so he cast, again in hole, line’s drift and sink, take and bend and the deep-run dive of hooked monster in the shadows.