Snow on the river
Cold mayfly wings can’t open.
A banquet for trout.

Circles ring, ring, ring
Around rising sipping fish
In gluttons heaven.

Time around me stops
I raise my rod with care
Lost now in eternity

My feather fly floats
Along with a flotilla
Of natural bugs.

So many flies to choose,
The diners ignore my clone,
Eat only naturals.

I twitch the rod tip
My fly moves – it’s struggling
As if to swim away.

A young unwise trout
Sees the movement, and rises,
Inhaling the insect

Which surrounds a hook
And my experience wins
As the battle begins.

Ice breaks in my guides
As the fish strips coils of line
Stretching the tippet

Out of the water
Exploding into snowflakes
He colors the sky

Then to the far bank
Diving toward willow roots
He uses his wiles

I have some wiles too
Before he tangles my line
I must turn his head

I pull first hard right
Then I switch and lead soft left
Using his resistance

To bring him away
From his sure escape route
And guide him mid-stream.

He runs down river
My line white with snowflakes
Follows after him.

Tired now, he stops
And I begin the slow turns
That will bring him back.

His still resists, but
His circles grow smaller
As he nears my net.

Whose strings are frozen
Like this moment is frozen
And will be forever!

Journal Comments