|September 13th, 1999|
You flutter past these eyes,
Not knowing what they think they see,
Nor do you care,
For your agenda needs me not.
But gaze at you in wonderment I do,
Thinking what fabric and colors need I gather to mimic you.
Your purpose is not mine,
Dependent upon no mortal thought or deed.
Set firmly toward your destiny,
Your tasks performed exquisitely,
Without a single thought as to the passage of time.
Yet as you flutter so delicately by,
You have no concept as to what is in the works,
The questions you have created,
To which men do think the answers plain.
More than likely, your laugh will be the last they hear,
When rod, line, and fly again appear.
So back home we run,
With new ideas to tie you down,
Gathering your colors from far and near,
Placing them upon hook in vise,
All our materials clear.
Wrapping and spinning you just to size,
We critique your exactness through some other's eyes.
Then return with proxy knotted on tippet,
Exactly where we found you now etched in time,
To see whether trout shall laugh or dine.~ DP Salamone
River Bed by Dave Motes
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