Close to Coho by John Beaton Part IV: in the "Tight Lines" poetry series. Morning I walk the beach by light of pre-dawn stars, discern the creek and track its shoreline swale along a trace where rocks and gravel meet and shells lie still as ivory in graves. The tide is low and freshly off the turn. I see the surface seam, fresh water's trail   and, through the silver dulse-weed at the mouth, I wade to level sandy-bottomed ground. The eel-grass lies in patches, swaying east and tide begins to move along the coast as salmon schools align to face its flow; I've judged that here a shoal will swing around.   I cast my fly into the sun's first blush. A morning breeze begins to grate its sheen, and then I see a single coho jump, full clear and fresh above that steely seam. And nothing happens after that, no fish shows elsewhere in this panoramic scene.   Evening   I stand in broad salt water to my waist. The sunset fires the mainland crags like coals; mergansers dive for bait-fish, smooth as lead, and coho leap to greet October skies; their spangling splashes ring the mirrored sea; they spring and slap, high-spirited as foals.   I see a racing bulge.  I'm in its path; a bolting coho flashes into view, barrelling breakneck to the shallow shore, careening past a yard from my two legs; its chevroned wake humps by, I feel the sway, and then the sea before me breaks in two.   About to collide, a sea-lion skids to a turn and whorls the water hugely where I wade; his flipper rudders strain to turn his bulk from plunging on at closing killing speed; upsurges gurgle as he arcs, submerged. I stand–a one-man save-the-fish stockade. Hatches Magazine Subscription Price: $6.95 for each issue The Premiere issue is ready for shipping & the Fall 2008 issue will be available September 1st.