Paul Goldberg’s most recent poem to appear here was “I walk on my street which is ever so nice” (May 2016)

Fly fishing
By Paul Goldberg

In the moon light of a rocky Mountain night
I stood fly fishing.
not a bite.

two youngsters downstream from me
Laughed and giggled by an old Douglas tree.

The boy stood there, net in hand,
a bucket of dog food lodged in the sand.

The girl shouted with excited glee, get that black trout. That big one there, don’t you see?

no, she says, that brown one, he is bigger still.
The boy lets out an exasperated Tennessee shrill.

make up your mind what you want. The water’s got a chilly bite.

With a twinkling grin and a flip of that pail, the boy let that dog food sail.

the nuggets made that water splatter, the glassy calm abruptly shattered.

As the trout thrashed about, that little boy lets out a shout. 

Ain’t no lonely fly
here’s food raining from the sky.

The boy grabbed his net like a hunter’s spear and nabbed the biggest trout that came near.

I don’t know the number of trout caught that night .
They say it was goodly sight.

Fly fishermen, I know this is hard to hear.

Forget the casting and the wait—just use dog food for your bait.