Flyfishing on the Fremont

They said the knots would be hard to tie.
They were. But that wasn’t the worst part.
Getting the fishing line out of my
hair or from the back of my shirt

made me think that maybe this knitting
project is not for me.
I take a stab at the flitting
fish. Easier to grab by hand, it seems.

Specked fish. Speckled sunlight.
A bald eagle. Two Sandhill Cranes.
Eating goldfish crackers. Take a bite,
human. The fish themselves aren’t fans.

Still. Maybe that’s the point. Not baiting fish but baiting
time. Learning to love the wait if not the waiting.