River Warriors

When spring breaks to summer

I hear the challengers calling. 

I pack my fly rod, my tackle, cans,

making my way back to old playing grounds. 

Defined by ways of ancestors long gone, 

of swollen currents, by the weaving water-worn rock, 

such animals grow to become tricksters — 

Building strength and cunning minds

sliding past the relentless, making warriors of themselves,

in the cold water that curls around the bend.  

I approach the banks, trying not to let them see me,

hoping they will give me a good play today. 

Fish too await the game of fishing. 

The hooked cheek is the coming of age. 

The greatest warriors know how to keep the fisher dangling, 

until they decide it’s time — 

Breaking trembled water for air, 

to dance, fly, snap and find gravity again, 

they fall fiercely back into blue waters. 

Under full fat skies, my pole and my line, I am ready. 

Yet, I come home empty handed. 

I feel no remorse, I admit. 

We, the fish and I, go fishing anyway, 

always to play a cunning game. 

To taunt fates dangling on thin lines, 

The fish and I, our souls, they marry well. 

We swing flies into cold waters, relentlessly 

they dance into sun spots, jump into air. 

All along we both sing the song of  “come and get me.”

We are all liars, 

I know most fishers and fish to be. 

We tempt and allude 

continuing to make warriors out of one another.