My bigger brothers love to paint;
With two-three colors they’ll create
A scene that could have brought Monet to give them lilies up.
But I’m a fisherman myself;
When spring is high there’s nothing else
I’d rather do than cast my twelve-foot leader on the breeze.
My rod is lean, my tackle light;
Up close my fly’s a marvelous sight:
I always tie the hackle white with eye-beads tilting up.
I cast a forward rolling loop—
At last my quarry stalls and stoops—
If only I can set the hook I’ll bring you to your knees.