On a summer night you can hear the snap
of a jack
ripples in the silver twilight
pursed lips towards the moon of mayflies dawning
in the still heat of evening making love
on the fatal attraction of
discarded waders
in a life so short and a dusk so long
and as blackness envelops
the memories cling like arms
passion sated
the whip of line laid low on water
stalking, still
the stream of consciousness unabated
