On a river deft with beauty
exists a glaring concrete scar
beneath which lies the best trout hole,
holding the fattest rainbows.

It's a race to the honey hole 
on most mornings, but at 28°
on the 24th of December 
in the rain at 5:45 a.m.
there is no need to run. 

Shivering hands hold the green fly rod
and cast, drift, mend and set the hook, 
release the drag, and glory in his run. 

Ill prepared for such luck, 
my net residing in the warmth of home, 
I balance down the eroded limestone channels
as the agile and aged rainbow tries all his tricks.  


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