A week and a half before the flood

that roared down the creek ripping

out the mountain road, up and down

 

in and out, and tumbling homes,

shattering them on big creek boulders

and before he sat in front of the T.V.,

 

in mesmerizing disbelief, he had balanced

himself among the boulders as the

swift water pushed and pulled at him

 

as he made short casts with a fly rod

for small browns and rainbows. His son,

the guide who provided the gear and flies

 

he had tied a week and a half earlier,

announced matter-of-factly, at the end

of the day of balancing, “Good job, Dad.

 

My buddies couldn’t have managed

these waters like you have all day

without the proverbial face plant.

 

Excellent!” The man was glad it

had been a week and a half earlier.

As he watched, he wondered if the

 

browns and rainbows following face

plant after face plant tumbling down

the creek, had washed over the dam

safely into Boulder reservoir and

were glad to be alive.  A week and

a half earlier, the man, exhausted

 

and leaning against a high and dry

boulder next to the creek, said,

“Come on, son. I’ll buy you a beer.”