My brother is trout fishing
At Cedar Crest Cove 
Before dawn,
And I’m having that dream again.
The one where he wakes me
Whispering in my ear
In the mountain darkness of the cabin.
I know to get up and dress.
Even though I don’t fish myself,
Walk with him, his gear and pole,
To the lake’s edge.  
He vanishes,
Finds his way across narrow Line Creek,
Sitting on bare ground 
As the emptying lake
Leaves him still,
Imitating our aunt Gloria
Who taught him to be motionless
When fishing the bank.
If she were alive, 
She’d be leaving too,
For the fish are biting somewhere else, 
Over the ridge at Camp 61-D Lake.
Unlike my brother, whom I watch     
Fixed, frozen, and waiting for a bite,
Coaxing the fish at sunrise
With his silent prayer.