Summer’s Day at Kettle Creek

Photo by Autumn Knepp

Dad is fishing behind me, a memory clipped
right out of the scrapbook of girlhood.
Flicking a small fly: in out in out in out.

Grey hairs braid through Dad's beard.
Plastic braid through the trout's gills.
Caught dead, but not bleeding.

One look—Dad is packing up his
gear. Too many lives lost today, he
says. I can't take it anymore.