
Crossing Galata, Istanbul
Flying fish
on Galata Bridge,
rods bowing and bobbing
like suppliants at a vizier’s audience.
Each fisher has his own space program,
launch pad,
elbow room, bait bucket,
like this sleeve-tugging city. I’m
for the fish, somehow. Down there
there’s piscine stitching of continents: Europe – Asia,
ferries and fish restaurants. Crossing
their sunshine
I pass between poles
of then and now,
a fish caught
in a rip of time, the zip of bait, the
howl of hook in mouth, it flips me
onto this bridge and off, too scrappy a catch,
victim of cheap jet fuel and wanderlust.
Image: Fly fishing tackle box next to stream / Chesapeake Bay Program
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