Daily Fly Fishing Poem #25: Everything Has Its Season
Born in late winter and populated with
fingers of trees still naked and grasping for the dull tin pie plate
that passes for the sun in that cold country, the season begins.
It begins with fly boxes fattened with
speculation, cabin fever and hope,
books with folded corners,
maps torn with folding and re-folding,
the click of a reel in the basement.
And then somehow the season ends
with a last trip, a last fish.
And with fly boxes thin and gaunt and
in need of filling.
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