Roaring Fork

        Trout here care not whether you choose
        to stay or, in frustration, storm off
        in silent rage, threatening never to
        return. Their nature stays always
        beneath the surface. They do not ponder
        your line, leader, tippet, nor reflect
        upon Mysis or Drake affixed at the end.

        There is nothing you can throw at them
        that has not been flung before. When
        suddenly they clamor for your presentation
        it is merely instinct - they know not if they will be
        retrieved, released, or ravaged, their bony remains
        tossed aside as refuse for ravens to carry away.

        Water makes them deceptive to your view,
        often forcing casts beyond their vision. When
        dismayed at your offering they back up
        in examination, their pectoral fins flaring outward,
        casting shadows on the streambed below,

        like angels in a storm. But to trout we appear
        as trees, wafting about, plundered and
        misrepresented, swaying violently in heavy
        wind, always the intruder. Our immersion
        temporary, unwelcome, and in the end, defied.

 Every Broken Thing

Roaring Fork

The Poetry Of Lance McKnight