The sound of the creek, filled by this midwinter thaw,
triggers the fisherman’s dreams. He feels himself
planted firmly in its waters, leaning into them
as they rush past his hip-high boots. He can smell
the boots. His muscles move in his sleep as he imagines
casting his line into the wind, watching it fly
through the wet air that tastes of spring and falling
into the waters, upstream. And in his dream he calls
to the trout and feels the tug on his line as one bites,
and he reels it in, oblivious now to the cold waters,
to their push against his legs. It is only him and the fish
now and this singular joy. And the joy feeds him,
and he wakes glad, even if spring is still ten weeks away.