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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
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?
hope that's here for the distance,
a pool to leap from
I can reach back for my father from here.
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