By Richard Jordan

Shadbush dangled over the bank, spicing

April air. White petals swirled in tight eddies

before a pool where pearl dace glittered

in the reeds. A perfect spot, I figured,

for fat rainbows. But an old-timer waved

me off, pointed into the distance, saying

the best trout were miles away, Up there,

where a tributary spilled into the river. So,

I waded swift, cold current, not knowing

the depth, while small, sharp stones slipped

into my boots. An hour, then more, until

the sky began to bleed sunset red. Still,

I finally found the confluence. And who was

already there but that old-timer? I marveled,

slack-jawed, at his loaded stringer, as he

measured me up then down, shook his head:

Ten minutes by truck, give or take.

A Ph.D. Mathematician by training, Richard Jordan's poems have appeared in Rattle (2022 Rattle Poetry Prize Finalist), Valparaiso Poetry Review, Sugar House Review, Atlanta Review, Little Patuxent Review, New York Quarterly, Rappahannock Review and elsewhere.