Blow away the lies that leave you nothing but lost and broken-hearted
There are some people I do not particularly enjoy.
I can't write and I know it.
Ah, isn't that a novel (and redundant) concept?
You know what I look forward to? My first rise of the year. When the trout sees the fly and thinks it's real but it's not. Then the water splashes and I jerk and he's on my line. Then I hold my right hand high up and I feel the wet, cool line in my left. If he's big that line will tear through my hand spraying tiny droplets of water into an evening's sunset. Then that fish will tire and I'm not one for patience and I will bring him in with my left hand, but maybe I will be patient and watch that rod tip wrangle and warble like that yellow bird in the pine tree. Maybe I'll relax and watch the beaver looking at me with pointed eyes from his home. Maybe the eagle will come back or maybe even the heron and I'll wonder why I like herons more than eagles (I guess that's not very patriotic). Then, perhaps, I will bring that trout in. The mist will start to roll through as the sun ducks down behind the tall maples and I'll feel his cool wet skin because trout don't have scales like other ugly fish. Then I'll feel his weak struggle and of course I will release him back into his water. And that's what's most true: the river belongs to the trout and the trout belongs to the river and where I fit in is not important. Yeah that's what I look forward to...because I cannot do anything that I wish I could do...but I can do that.
I can't write and I know it.
Ah, isn't that a novel (and redundant) concept?
You know what I look forward to? My first rise of the year. When the trout sees the fly and thinks it's real but it's not. Then the water splashes and I jerk and he's on my line. Then I hold my right hand high up and I feel the wet, cool line in my left. If he's big that line will tear through my hand spraying tiny droplets of water into an evening's sunset. Then that fish will tire and I'm not one for patience and I will bring him in with my left hand, but maybe I will be patient and watch that rod tip wrangle and warble like that yellow bird in the pine tree. Maybe I'll relax and watch the beaver looking at me with pointed eyes from his home. Maybe the eagle will come back or maybe even the heron and I'll wonder why I like herons more than eagles (I guess that's not very patriotic). Then, perhaps, I will bring that trout in. The mist will start to roll through as the sun ducks down behind the tall maples and I'll feel his cool wet skin because trout don't have scales like other ugly fish. Then I'll feel his weak struggle and of course I will release him back into his water. And that's what's most true: the river belongs to the trout and the trout belongs to the river and where I fit in is not important. Yeah that's what I look forward to...because I cannot do anything that I wish I could do...but I can do that.