November Steelhead
With the weak November sun
and high treed bank
the deep dark pool waters
reflect no light nor sign
of silver fish beneath the surface
Silent save for the murmur
of a downstream riffle
and the kingfisher’s rattle
then a tug on my line
the screech of the reel’s drag
a splash, a glimpse of a fresh steelhead
The tug now a frantic upstream run
I bite my lip and taste my blood
then my line goes slack, the fish is free
and the reel stem cold between my fingers
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