by Richard Jordan
Standing at this secluded spot along
Green River for the first time in thirty
years. There’s still shadbush dangling
over the water, its small, white petals
dropping, whisked away on the current
toward the falls. I’m with my old fishing
buddy, Mike. This is his favorite stomping
ground, but these days, he is gaunt, has
clouded eyes. I know better than to pry
& anyway, he’d only say to focus on
the trout. All last night that’s what we did,
spent hours talking rainbows, browns
& brookies, as caddisflies hovered thick
around our cabin’s porch light. Now Mike
asks me to select my finest imitation fly.
No doubt that’s the elk hair with pearl tinsel.
I tie it to his line then look upstream & spot
a rise ring. There’s a big one, Mike, I say,
pointing. No, he says. First crack at it
is yours. He hands me his rod then backs
away, gives me space. No pressure, he adds.
Loud laugh. Don’t hook your hat. That’s Mike.
I land the cast exactly where it needs to be,
between a fallen log & boulder just past
the widening ring. Sight fixed on the drift,
I inhale deep. Oh, yes, Mike says. Get a load
of that shadbush. Let’s have ourselves a day.
© 2025 Richard Jordan All rights reserved.
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