The Procession

We traveled in close procession,

our heavy footsteps plodding through the moss and bracken,

over rotten logs til the stream welled before us

running swift and clear.

We lay our rods down on the soft grass, 

lowering ourselves into the cool water up to our thighs.

The current swirled in tiny eddies around our legs.

We said nothing but retrieved our rods and silently

selected our directions.

I turned downstream with deliberate intent

feeling the waters pressing in upon each footfall.

Before rounding the bend to a deep, shadowy run I looked back

and saw him adeptly flip out his line;

saw the fine spray reflecting in the morning's sun

like a thousand raindrops as the line curved back

then flicked effortlessly forward.

I watched only for a moment 

as he stripped the line fluidly

with hands born from a thousand such mornings

and a thousand such streams.

He took a measured step forward,

behind a toppled cedar still green with spring's growth,

and I saw him no more.

Yet lapping still against the soft undercut banks

were the reverberations

of his movements unseen 

through those rich, tannic waters.