The Longest day of the Year
Fly fisherman imagine that the rivers
are running only for them, there where the spring
from the high lakes form with a trickle
of snow-melt. Yawning in the spring run-off of sleep,
flow memories of flora and fauna, children, labor,
family and comedy and tragedy, the quiet thoughts
of loss, and the odor of love and the pulse
of the heart that is beating now, at this moment,
where the fish are rising in each of us, and no-one else.
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