Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Stolen poem - picture taken after a long, very cold day of fishing the Gallatin River outside of Bozeman last fall.
by Ken Hada
After three days of hard fishing
we lean against the truck
untying boots, removing waders.
We change in silence still feeling
the rhythm of cold water lapping
thankful for that last shoal of rainbows
to sooth the disappointment
of missing a trophy brown.
We'll take with us the communion
of rod and line and bead-head nymphs
sore shoulders and wrinkled feet.
A good tiredness claims us
from slipping over rocks, pushing rapids –
sunup to sundown – sneaking
toward a target, eyes squinting
casting into winter wind.
We case the rods, load our bags
and start to think about dinner.
None of us wants to leave.
None wants to say goodbye.
Winter shadows touch the river cane.
The cold is coming. We look up
into a cobalt sky, and there,
as if an emissary on assignment,
a Bald Eagle floats overhead
close enough to bless us
then swiftly banks sunward
and is gone.