We sit in the canoe
He's in the back, I'm in the front.
A tapered leader twists in the evening breeze.
He hands me the green fly box,
and I open it in awe:
thirty years of collection and selection.

But I don't want the green box.
I reach for the steel case,
the selection of flies like no other.
That box was handmade in England, you know.
Your grandpa tied all the flies in there.
I pop it open.

Fingers touch
the strong black bristles
of a leech-patterned grasshopper.
Eyes scan
the streaming yellow feather of a Mickey Finn.

Finally,
I find it:
the perfect fly,
small brown plumes on both sides
with a soft white tuft on top.

I remove it from the foam ridge.
That's a great fly, Dad comments.
I slip the line through the eye
and tie it on.

Such a little knot
never made
such a strong connection.