The water pulses over the rocks with the pulse of the land
Completing the cycle to promote life
Delivering the substances needed to all on hand.
A doe glides up gently to sip at the bank
Fawn huddled comfortably at her side
They graze in the lush growth nourished by the stream
The bounty of Spring at the height of the seasonal tide.
Eagle watches from his idle perch
Surveying in leisure its morning view
With but one flick of his wings he heads out
To find food, his energy to renew.
The trout is sitting mid-level in the stream
In an eddy behind a boulder
sensuously flowing like a fluid being
The prime spot's current lease holder.
To the world he does not exist
Invisible to others, blending in
He learned the area and knows where is safe
But now is in the best feeding hold, waiting to begin.
The early sun has warmed the riffle to life
The nymphs have started releasing their holds
And rising to the surface of the stream
To struggle to reach freedom from their molds.
Small translucent sails of mayfly wings
start appearing on the surface slick
Pale Morning Duns, drying their wings for flight
A fight that only will only go to those who are quick.
The trout has chosen his hold well
And through years has fought off many rivals
But he has proven better and able
To fight off every challenge by new arrivals.
He was stationed in the prime location
Where he could earn maximum return with little effort
With minimal movement he could engulf a stream of flies
The flow would funnel to him before they could depart.
He could examine each individual insect
For any sign that might be out of line
He could pass on anything that did not seem right
He had a steady supply lined up on which to dine.
The Angler moved quietly to the bank
Keeping a low profile to mask himself from sight
He could see the flies and many fish
But he was in no rush, no desire to give his prey a fright.
Splashy rises gave away the location of several fish
Trout that darted about grabbing their bites
These were not his target though
Flashy youngsters in lesser spots.
He silently studied the prime spots
Ones that might hold something more than this noisy lot
Finally he saw a subtle dimple
The tell tale sign of the prize he sought.
Watching, he saw it once more, then twice, and again
The kype of a large buck brown trout
Subtly gulping duns like clockwork
From the secure hold with a line of flies tracking to his snout.
The rodder moved carefully into the water
Slowly to not startle his match
Knowing he would not get a second chance
He moved into position he hoped best for a catch.
He scooped a fly gently off the water
Checking it for size and exact hue
Opening his box he found a creation
Comparing, he was sure this one would do.
Piece of art from fur and feather
Skeleton of steal hook with thread to bind
Quickly tied and tested the nearly invisible leader
A wisp the size a spider might wind.
Measuring distance by experience and instinct
He peels off line needed for the cast
And timing the interval of his target’s rises
He drops his fly with a timing he sure won't get past.
Laying down line with serpentine curves
The stream straightens the line as the fly flows on
And just as planned, as it reaches the chute
The dimple appears and the imitation is gone.
With a raise of his arm the angler pulls the line tight
And the trout feel the bite of steal for the first time
And explodes downstream to engage in the fight
Enrage at the fact that he had been fooled in his prime.
The angler used the rod to protect the tippet
And moved carefully through the stream
Moving the fish towards a pool
Working with rod, current, and line as a team.
Playing the beast with experience and care
The fish began to tire and lose his will
To continue a fight he was not going to win
And with a lift of the rod the fish slid to hand with skill.
The prize was in hand and hook taken out
The angler thought about the camera and decided no need
He took one more look at the foe
And sent it back, released home and freed.
"Thank you my friends" the angle said
To the stream, the rod, and to the trout he just let go
And there he stood there a moment
Once more spending the time to enjoy the flow.
A few other anglers were arriving on scene
With a clatter of gear and chatter to hear
The angler made a choice and broke down his rod
He had accomplished his mission, landed a trophy dear.
He met the other anglers for dinner that night
Whom he had passed with smiles and nods
They looked at him and questioned his early departure
"I only made one cast and put away the rod."
The others all smiled and chattered about their great day
The difficult fishing and counts of fish they had engaged
Except for one in the corner who stayed quite
A weathered and wiry old sage.
When the joviality finally calmed down
The grizzled gentleman stood and lifted a glass
"Before I toast the day, the water, the fish,
There is one question I need to ask."
"On that one cast you made, alone on that stream
How was the fish you released, come, time to boast."
But the angler just returned a wry smile and said, "not bad."
Then he stood and lifted his glass, sharing a silent toast.
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