Fishing With Bill

You won’t see him wading anymore,

he stopped doing that a while ago.

He was getting a bit unsteady for surprises

on the bottom of an ever changing riverscape.

I have never stepped into a stream

without thinking of him; sometimes I even

think I smell his favorite pipe blend when

the evening stillness comes to the North Branch.

I can hear the soft cut of his line pass

through the prescient air and know it will land

exactly where he intended.

He was a poet, you know.

His were not words placed exactly where

they should be, but colors and sometimes, dry flies,

or perfectly selected spices and seasonings.

He shined most at inviting new friends into his delightful world

of conversation, hearty meals, a fine cigar

and a glass of wine.

He loved the precision of art

and the randomness of humanity

with equal fervor.

He loved the people he shared time and wine with

not the time and the wine.

He acted more the steward of his possessions than their owner.

He measured value in the friends he shared them with.

And now, as always, he goes ahead, to check
the larder for the morning meal of

Slab cut bacon, fried potatoes,
toast from Ruth’s home made bread
and her freezer strawberry jam,
eggs basted in bacon drippings
and strong coffee.

All the while whining vehemently
about never winning at cards.

There was the beginning
to a perfect day
of fishing
with Bill

©Herb Ratliff - March 1, 2013