Fishing is a silent sport 

We pass them, 

There is a brief nod of acknowledgement as they turn their reel 

I cannot tell if it is respect in their nod, or if the silence is simply a language that says 

I fear you will scare the steelhead away 

There is nothing bright about the river

It is North

Dark

Sprinting with river weed and salmon 

Dead leaves 

The fishermans eyes gloss over, flirting their line across the skin of the water, reeling it in, repeat

Waders pulled up, thick like Tupperware 

Tight to their nipples 

Large like clown pants 

While we skim by like blue water bugs with paddles

I saw a blue heron plummet from her branch like a novice ballerina 

But watching her sprite forward into the sky on two wings 

Was enough really 

To make me love the river