The Way Snow Hits Water

A damsel with a dulcimer in a vision I once saw.—Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Lately we’ve been fishing dry flies
in the snowstorms—those of us
who still harbor a hope that trout
are as smart as they are beautiful.
I once saw a televised image of
an Afghani girl playing in the dirt
next to a gun mount.
Arthur Kent, the “Scud Stud,”
narrated that she was her country’s
equivalent of a mall bunny.
Have you truly watched
the way snow hits water?
It’s nothing like bombs,
so occasionally a trout will
take a midge, beyond the
January feast of scud and sculpin,
those obvious ploys
by the food chain,
beyond the duty to survive,
and into the joys of
just being alive.
As usual, we all read too much
into the water, just as
the casual observer might
mistake snow melting
on our cheeks
for tears.