December's eastern sky is windswept.
Clouds painted with broad brush strokes,
on a horizon serving as canvas.
Colors of a forlorn grey hue.
Round bales standing in the field,
evidence of winter cattle prosperity.
Ducks on a gentle prairie lagoon,
resting from the hunter's wield.
The wind is mean today,
will it cause trout austerity?
December's breath is bitter today.
Fewer souls on the river Blue now,
early season anglers have vanished.
Like hard-earned money from the wallet,
of a veteran Saturday night drunk -
practicing the occupation of getting polished.
Those left - old salts, true lovers of the art.
They face the wind, cold, and pain.
Bitterness embraces the lot of them, but still,
head on to torment, for time grows shorter.
Tearing eyes, frozen guides, steadfast -
forward in the time that remains.
December's breath finds me today,
lays steely heavy in my chest.
So very numbing to the fingers,
these seeking eyes grow wet.
But, time pushes forward with me,
in the stew I slowly wade.
The Rocking Chair is the target,
a place foreign to fur and feather.
A favored place of the bait fisher,
a cradle from the weather.
Bugger and midge are the team
into the pool they drift.
First drift brings a trout,
but more trout would be not,
Upstream is calling - another course,
through a channel, a north fork.
So-long granite chair, I make a new way,
fishing you will wait another day.
The first fish is give a name,
as the second and third at Glory.
The wind is brutal at Glory,
and I hear the south wild call.
There's more fish to be counted,
and more fish to be named.
Counting all the fish, naming all the fish,
a compulsive disorder by a compulsive man?
There's Silverside, Aurora, Nova, Starchaser,
then Flash, Jumpin' Jack, Rascal, and Pegasus.
Each new fish counted, each new fish given.
Nineteen fish counted, nineteen fish named.
Pools and pockets are so rewarding today,
the south wilderness is quite kind.
The harbor known as the Cove,
is where the treasures were hid.
Awaiting battle with the fur and feather,
and angler of the cold season weather.
There are no timepieces on the river Blue,
except the timepiece of time itself.
Forever passing, never stopping,
ticking at it's own rhythm and rhyme.
Time today has passed for me,
and it's now time to leave the river.
On the trail out by Coyote Pass,
two bucks locked in battle.
Driven by that deep natural desire,
glorious nature in it's essence.
To the victor goes the spoils,
Focused, they never since my presence.
December's breath blows down my neck,
as I slowly climb that last steep hill.
Thanks are given to the creator,
for all the wealth and thrill.
December's breath - we'll meet again.
|The Rocking Chair|
|North Fork behind Glory.|
|Trout named Silverside.|
|South Wilderness trout.|
|Trout named Aurora.|
|Eastern fork of the south wilderness.|