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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
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