The Bamboo Fly Rod

By

Because I have just finished building a fly rod,

I walk behind my house

to test its action.

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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.

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