Old Dan

Quiet save for a morning glory’s cue Daylight decks the sky cerulean blue Sunday and like the hues of color wheels Old Man Dan hunts for all his fishing creels The rye grass cradles tiny spheres of dew Dawn fishing allures in lieu of a pew Like osmosis, moisture fills his old boots As the last morning owl gives a few hoots Trout Royal Red is already awake Waiting for Dan in the depths of the lake Three pounds of beauty, paint on his sleek back Royal Red knew what the old man might lack Sharpen arsenal now, fish where it’s dim You know he will not dare bite on a whim And Old Man Dan has a trick up his sleeve His light-tinted fly spent two weeks to weave His tackle befit with two pound test line No wet or dry flex just regular twine No weights to be used, tossed from the jetty The fly should track the natural eddy From his boat he tossed his new-fangled bait So natural the drift only to wait Red spied his game moving at the right speed Closer he came from behind the tall reed He strictly examined his tasty prey For t’was a real bug, it would have to pay Closer he came to the well-tied disguise Knowing full well it could be his demise Soft and ductile he gave it a small bite Then Old Dan jerked with all of his might Royal Red noticed a slight scent of snuff Then spit out the fly aware of the stuff Old Dan fell overboard with all his gear The only thing left – a pain in his rear This comical scene smacked of déjà vu He had been there before - a time or two Red took a break aside the still water Smiling inside providing Dan fodder Eyeing Dan’s canoe tarry upside down He sped swiftly to hide from his mad clown Madder than hops Dan drug his boat home Cussing and swearing he took on a foam He would come back the next date of the sun Certainly it would be his day of fun