Every angler falls for the waters’ dirty trick,
When hooked into a big one in lake or pond or crick,
First the rods bends
But soon the fight ends
For alas, it was only a stick.
The grass crunches underfoot
on my way to the creekbank
“Fire Danger: High”
reads the sign at the trailhead
too dry, much too dry lately
The walk is longer than it used to be
the water, retreating downstream
has left less of the creek there
the sun on near still pools
seem more intense
or perhaps simply concentrated
the same sun on less water
low water.
The fish that remain
those that did not flee with the water
are hungered by the staleness of the water
barely moving, bringing them no food
but in their shaded hides and cut bank hollows
they lurk
waiting for drifting insects
waiting, hoping for morsels
As I work upstream
casting into the minute shaded pockets
the water shows what life it has left
the ravenous inhabitants dart from safety
and taking no caution
attack my fly with abandon
Swift and stout
darting in blues, greens, oranges
punching well above their weight
the miscellany of panfish fight
much more than their fingerling size
One after another they come
small, but sturdy
and in such numbers
that in telling about it later
I must leave a few out to be believed
Walking what was once the creekbed
I make note
of features once hidden
and when the water returns
I will know the haunts and snags
that fish will call home
a sad advantage afforded anglers
by low water
A broad bend shows the time worn channels
where the creek has run
leaving a pool
now amputated from the flow of the creek
where the water has warmed
and film coats the surface
I almost miss it
casually passing in the corner of my eye
a hint of movement
the lazed flick of a fin
A closer look discloses
in the tepid pool
a gar
the toothy, torpedo-shaped dinosaur
trapped in a shrinking vessel
To catch a gar is always a joy
but this feel different
to catch it, yes
but to set it free
in the diminishing water
The fish seems lethargic
no fly can rise it
what to do?
how to stay the certain demise
should it remain
The needle-like teeth
gleam at me as I enter the pool
the gar drifts aimlessly
making no effort to escape
I’m close now
bending slowly, I reach down
slowly cradling the fish
gently lifting it from the water
It makes no struggle
no thrashing or jerks
the gar seems dull
less slimy than I’m used to
As I walk it over to the remaining channel
it slowly rotates its fins
yearning towards the water
I slip it into the water
and for a moment it hangs motionless
then effortlessly it glides towards cover
Leaving only a memory
of low water.
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