This withered river
The Cotton woods aflare.
Harvest moon sets, drizzle rain.
Beatis emerge.
Each cast a reflection of
a new year to come.
The Cotton woods aflare.
Harvest moon sets, drizzle rain.
Beatis emerge.
Each cast a reflection of
a new year to come.
Sometimes we go fly fishing not to really catch a fish, but to catch some time with another kindred spirit. Spending time on a river, walking miles searching, where hours can go by with out conversation. Thanks for the day!
No comments:
Post a Comment