Fish On.

I just realized that having a trout on the line is the very same feeling as brand new love.

Especially at dusk.

You can almost see it crackle in the dark.

It’s electric

Even the June bugs - the nighthawks

Everything is buzzing off the same charge.

You’ve spent so long lobbing your best lures

Blindly into deep pools

And dragging them back to you - still blindly

Hoping something follows

Something with pink twitching flesh.

You trick a few Pickerel

But they always cut your line

So you tie on another lure

Maybe something smaller, less flashy

And fling it back into the dark.

You can only see so far into someone else’s place

Even if you’re standing right on the banks of their river

Even if you wade in

You’re still only pointing a flashlight at the stars.

So when you feel a tap

A tug

In your fingers

It’s a miracle

Every time.

When you finally get your hands around it

And feel the whole life of the thing

That you’re about to make your own

You look back at each other - gasping

And singing the same Sturgill song

“Am I dreaming? Or am I dying?
Either way I don’t mind at all.”