My father, Tying Flies

When my father's fishing days
were over,
he was still tying flies,
the unparalleled stillness
the sound of a fish, a quiet delicious
silver rush of water flipped slightly at dusk
stream touching stone without sound
then, a musical riff in the state of sweet sleep.
the rod gracefully bending, whipped forward
the whir of the reel topping the
ice cream scoops of silence, then,
a tiny splash, a fly pierces foam
uninterrupted by the pianissimo pine tree evening song
only dogwood and dog's ears could hear
still teasing with an evening glow, aftertaste of the
sun's warmth, widespread branches gently shadowing the shallow river's banks
a young trout surfaces boldly in the mystery calm, echoing
the imagined murmur of Eel River
sending shivers up your spine.
Languid tranquility that cools every cell in your body,
cells slipping from their moorings to speak with neighboring
cells of the river, the husky-voiced gray sky, the ancient
tree limbs,
swarming into the rich earthbed's coverlet of pungent needles
into the outside of your skin
into letting go
into the suspension of brain waves
momentarily outside of your skin
and into
sacred secrets
into simplicity
into letting go
at dusk
Yet not.

© Dorothy Jesse Beagle

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