Arcs by Jon Sebba
Above the splash and ripple damsel-nymphs
dance in sepia tones, dragonflies hesitate
in and out of spider silk traces
dangling from dusty bones
of a rusty bridge arch over the low sun.
A lone youth, knee-deep in a pale-beer current,
twitches the rod in his hand,
sends a sunlit spark along a loop
in a wide oval arc that settles on water,
Like a conductor at the philharmonic,
he swings his arm back. Twist-flick,
the point of light vaults higher and wider,
streaks from hand to hook,
kisses the wet surface
and lingers like a feather for a beat.
Suddenly, a spring rainbow
explodes in a splash.
Vees radiate from the line
and race away.
He pants and wrestles,
trout twists and turns,
rod bends and bows.
The line sings out.
The rod and reel play until the tired fish concedes.
He draws her to him, cradles the rainbow in water,
eases hook out of her jaw,
admires her sleek lines,
then opens his hands. She gives
a tail-flip and smack that sound like, Thank you.
You’re welcome, he murmurs and sighs.