What we call sucker, chub and carp are coarse to them. I have dreamed of lords with fly rods and tweeds beside the chalk-bottomed Test. Granted, that’s no myth. Yeats’ Irishman, the freckled one “who goes to a grey place on a hill/In grey Connemara clothes/At dawn to cast his flies” still works his way […]

Your Browning 16 gauge, oiled and blued so smooth that it looks automatic even before firing, is still with me in the corner of a backroom closet, slowly silting over, lost in my will to fish, not hunt. This evening, through a window blackbirds burst like flack from bare trees and leave a black lattice, […]

It figures that your mother was a mail-order bride: Brooklyn Girl Marries Kansas Farmer — that you and your new father didn’t speak for six years. “Tell her to pass the mashed potatoes” — that the farm dusted over bad and you sat in it for summers before it grew back. But you accepted it, […]