I can feel this winter growing old nipping away it's last frozen bites, laying dormant matted and gray frozen clear the night's allowing the silence and clarity needed for me to see the change. Patience till the brush begins to turn red, till saps flow, till the decomposing year lingering and almost lost begins to meet the breeze warmed by far away places. When our rivers and streams are let from ice and snow flowing with new waters color, Steel head green my mind paints it. This fisherman mind is always turning unwritten lay the season, in a second a thought eyes glazed over the evening fire burns the water, rising ghost in the glooming. hidden in fog light rain moving to bless me, their lichen and moss lay me upon fading, shall nobody wake me. I will remain waiting like every other season before and to come waiting for the first Stone flies to crawl over the melting winter memory. Waiting and fine dreaming the dream that will eventually rise hopefully to one of my flies.
