On the Columbia River near Vantage, <br />Washington, we fished for whitefish <br />in the winter months; my dad, Swede- <br />Mr. Lindgren-and me. They used belly-reels, <br />pencil-length sinkers, red, yellow, or brown <br />flies baited with maggots. <br />They wanted distance and went clear out there <br />to the edge of the riffle. <br />I fished near shore with a quill bobber and a cane pole. <br /> <br />My dad kept his maggots alive and warm <br />under his lower lip. Mr. Lindgren didn't drink. <br />I liked him better than my dad for a time. <br />He lets me steer his car, teased me <br />about my name 'Junior,' and said <br />one day I'd grow into a fine man, remember <br />all this, and fish with my own son. <br />But my dad was right. I mean <br />he kept silent and looked into the river, <br />worked his tongue, like a thought, behind the bait.<br /><br />Raymond Clevie Carver<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bobber/
