The Moya View





If there is wild moving water

there is a trout in it

waiting for the cast,


the whip of line in air

splashing a weigthless fly

on the mirror surface


luring the rainbow fish

to break the heavy air

for the angler’s fantasia.




The Rogue is flowing

with trophy size cutthroats,

chars and steelheads,


yet the angler only feels

the stillness, the endless  casting,

the motionless standing in place


until time is forgotten,

his scheduled life forgotten,

what needs to be done next forgotten


only the emotion is left,

the heart of spirit ferrules,

the casting, the rod


with its wheel seats

made of rosewood,

inscribe calligraphy


in golden ink, shiny agate

guides in bamboo,

its garnet threads and


 extra fine brass wire

in a five weight

ideal for trout fishing,


the anglers long boots

planted firmly in the stream,

getting lost in the ineffable moment


until the closing

orange hues of autumn

are reeled in and stowed away.









One response to “Casting”

  1. carolineshank Avatar

    Wonderful sundappled tale of autumn

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