Mike in the Mist- December Mornings
I’m standing hip deep in the icy river.
The chill mist surrounds me, ice fog they call it.
You feel that cold in your very core, bone numbing cold.
That weak December sunlight penetrates through, warming my back, reflecting off my icy gear.
Rolling salmon draws my attention downstream.
Spey rod parallel to the water, poised for action, I wait.
I feel the thump as the salmon takes the fly, I lift that long rod to set the hook.
As the salmon feels the bite of the hook, he leaps into the air & takes off in a blistering run.
The reel and my soul sings.
The chill mist surrounds me, ice fog they call it.
You feel that cold in your very core, bone numbing cold.
That weak December sunlight penetrates through, warming my back, reflecting off my icy gear.
Rolling salmon draws my attention downstream.
Spey rod parallel to the water, poised for action, I wait.
I feel the thump as the salmon takes the fly, I lift that long rod to set the hook.
As the salmon feels the bite of the hook, he leaps into the air & takes off in a blistering run.
The reel and my soul sings.
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