Two

by Jesse Gloyd

“Dad,” said Cody. His father looked up stream; Cody was standing ankle deep in rubber waders, legs wobbling with the arched tug of the split bamboo shaft twitching with life. He made his way slowly towards his son, reeling in the line while walking over the river rock.
“Don’t jerk,” he said. “You’ll rip it out of his mouth.”

Cody let the trout hold for a moment to rest the tight burn of his forearm. Not a moment later, though, he began reeling with intermittent quick thrusts; water spraying off the line violently and landing atop the hairless skin of his wrist. A Ford pick-up drove down the road behind them, kicking up dust that filtered through the air and tickled inside of Cody’s nose with the faint sensation of an antique store. The moment passed and the truck disappeared on down the riverbank, taking with it the distorted tenor of Merle Haggard singing Big City.
The fish jumped and broke the water; twisting its singular muscle of a body into the air in quiet desperation, before falling on its side, rippling small circles in the flowing water.

“He’s getting tired,” said Cody’s dad.

“I know,” said Cody.

“Start walking toward him,” said his dad.

Cody moved cautious over the rocks. A hatch of flies buzzed around his thighs as the water grew slowly around his waist. The sun had begun to fade down the valley that lead to Virginia City, casting half shadows across the faces of the rolling hills. In the distance the crack of a rifle sounded, scaring a grouping of birds out from the brush and into the air. The fish was below him now. It swam around his legs passively, its body distorted by the moving warble and sunset reflection on the water.