Danny
Google
At spring’s height, by the swift-rushing river,
The boughs of willow shed graceful shadow,
Where beneath, a spotted trout rests, lingering,
Amidst the feathers of the river weeds.
And where the mayfly rises like the river mist,
At risk from fish and swallow, with a life so ephemeral.
Stands among the bourn in spate, the angler,
Casting with economic grace, the line rests,
Then drawn back in sweeping arc, and out again,
To catch the wily opponent — who is the most devious?
The battle commences!