Fly-Fishing by Edea Baldwin


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These stolen moments
carved out of my rock-solid reality do not feel like fantasy.
My soft, quickened breath
and gently racing pulse
are quite substantial.
I step from stone to stone
to join you in midstream.

Together we spin our words lightly,
a flick of our rods sending
carefully-tied, feathery flies
skimming across the shimmering surface
of our conversation.

Occasionally one of us may
allow a fly to descend
a little below the surface,
ready to whip the line back up
into bright sunlight, fresh air.

Later, I step gingerly
from one obsidian stone to the next,
on my way back to shore,
each tread grounding me more firmly.