Because I have just finished building a fly rod,
I walk behind my house
to test its action.
Midwinter sun glazes
the field lost beneath three feet
of hard-packed snow.
After a few casts, the line
falls like a thin green snake
onto the ice crust.
My hands are chafed red from the wind,
and I give the rod another flick
to whip the line
for one last throw.
What pines I can distinguish
beyond the borders of the field
are the greenest trees I've ever seen.
The fly rod springs back and forth,
bamboo arching as I shoot the line
far, far across the field.