The Fly Fisher and the Surgeon
By Dick Altman
The frothy, mountain-fed streams
of small but feisty trout
call us back every spring
Not much of a prize,
I know, for his staying alive.
Given his chances,
better a nibble (he laughs)
of hope, than nothing.
Yet given the odds,
he needs a rod-bending strike.
Surgeon that he is knows the risks.
Ten hours in shadowy waters,
beyond fear, pain or dream.
Ten hours, as robotic fingers
probe his neck and throat.
Seek prey here, there,
pray, please, not everywhere.
As if working a narrow stream,
he says, with lots of overhang,
catch and keep the only rule.
With luck, you reel in the keeper.
And the rest of your life.
I watch months later his rod test
Rio del Pueblo and Cimarron.
I envy how his surgeon’s hands
weave line into wind and flow.
How lovingly he lets his rainbow gifts go.
I think of metallic fingers casting
into dark, alien currents of his life.
Angling for trophies, elusive,
death-defying if caught, deadly if not.
Ten hours under, you don’t know
what they’ve netted, he says,
until, like a hatch, you break the surface.