Rock Creek




       A lone crow caws out high above in its pine as
       you cut a seam through the sky, your cast dragging
       fly and dropper along as it zips the space behind
       finally closed. Landing just beyond the run and
       into the riffle, you mend your line like rosary beads,

       searching out what cannot be seen - haunted
       by hours of calm and no hatch. These trout are wise
       beyond reason, given to rise but once, they skirt,
       scuttle, drift and settle to lower channels, basking
       in dark water just beyond your range and showing

       little interest in any nymph or imitation you can throw.
       On days like this we are no more threat than stones
       that glide beneath their bellies. Unlike trout,
       our salvation is not genetic, but claimed. Wading
       out in deep water we slide uncontrolled, grasping

       back for purchase at any branch or root,
       frantically trying to regain balance, struggling
       hard against current, desperately seeking land,
       where we know our purpose. Resolute. Like
       fallen men hopelessly bargaining for redemption.

 Every Broken Thing

Rock Creek

The Poetry Of Lance McKnight