Ripples
George D. Stout


A cool mist rises from the creek and permeates the forest�s breadth.
as waves of maidens take to flight to start the dance of life and death
From hands and knees on mossy bank the fisherman surveys the flat
and reaches for his favorite fly hooked neatly in his wide-brimmed hat

The summer solstice lingers near when days and nights give equal tune
the wild trout senses pending feasts as mid-day fades to afternoon
The fisherman now lies in wait and watches for a telling sign
he dreams of rising rainbow trout, of tying flies and casting line

The caddis in its armored suit clings tight against the current�s drift
awaiting metamorphosis it dwells within the limestone rift
A fragile life at best it leads among the gravels in the creek
in order to advance its kind, to mate and die in but one week

Emerging angels ride the wind up in the shallows by the bend
some make the trip with certain ease while other struggle to ascend
A miracle of nature�s guile from creek bed dwellers they transcend
to winged dancers sailing to their destiny upon the wind

The fisherman now on one knee presents his fly among the mass
with gentle roll cast sent upstream it settles for a subtle pass
Above the rift and toward the bend where rainbow ghosts hide in their lair
awaiting nature�s winged buffet that flutters down like angel's hair

As line drifts near the eddy�s flow it pauses slightly in its trip
the fisherman instinctively takes out the slack and lifts the tip
The bamboo rod pulls taut and snug as streaking rainbow breaks the film
it pulls and tugs in vain attempt to secure the rift within its realm

Amid emerging flows of life the battle ends with thoughtful pause
of admiration and respect then left to swim for future cause
The fisherman has counted coup, the trout will live to fight once more
as darkness settles on the creek like leaves upon the forest floor