I am the nymph, ephemerella,
on half-spent winds; shucking my skin
in rivers of early spring- to dun.
I am the trout that gorges; waiting
on egg-laden spinners that drift,
after a long winter. I am the pollen,
of the elder oaks and ashes;
carried by the wind- landing in runlets, replenished by rain. I am the
covered shadows touched by the current- synced, to move along together;
into the falls, always babbling.
I am the fine mist dusting,
gently sweeping by; from fly rod reel
at its ten o'clock break-
pausing (even the breath),
in hopes of perfect cast.
I am the muck, stuck; the solid ground.
I am the wing-dipped bird soaring;
the spiders silk, blown.
I am the green leaf, bitten.
I am the pike; I am the bite.
I am the liken of a thousand years.
I am the rock, the green, the brown.
I am the movement;
the stillness in silence.
I am the flow ....
I am the river.