Drought Fishing

Thomas Reiter

Mid-riverbed, below rapids dry as

the track left by a pencil eraser,

I come to a pool that from bank-side

glints like the last thin dime

the water's down to. I circle it

in minutes, and though I can't see

the bottom, I find whirligig beetles,

a lotus leaf, the skin of a mud snake.

My father in the nursing home wakes crying,

Where am I? Am I still here?

I remember how he taught me

to fly fish, backcasting so the line

unrolled to a soft tautness, then rode

on a forearm stroke over the water

and reached this far, the deepest pool,

where stillness might crumple

in a brown trout's feeding rise.

Where am I? Am I still here?

A spring from the aquifer holds out

hope that's here for the distance,

a pool to leap from

to the whole river and its roe and milt.

I can reach back for my father from here.