words from a river

Perfection lived in the arc of a great trout, its red burnished against the cool blur of October light.

Yes, the days would be measured and judged against this day,

considered against the scent of burnt cedar caught in my father's Pendleton.

Other days considered, would pale, balance precarious and awkward against the

artful delivery of a mayfly facing these cold dark waters.

This day without fault, would assess the others...

a shaded ebon pool dappled with reckless trout, the line's spray a thousand separate angels.