A poem by Sarah Giddy
These things are real –
The yelp of the feet as they hit the frosty grass,
The skim of the lure as it hits the stream like stone
The glow of the morning that hits the face like a song
The jerk of the line with the fish’s feisty pull.
Alone is real.
Water is real.
Sky is real.
Now is real.
Reel in the fish and put on the kettle.
Now is the time for woodsmoke, wet canvas, cold fingers, breakfast and dancing.