by Jim Yaussy Albright
The lake was waiting for me, though I was very late.
A bright trout came to the fly, went back in the water
taking all the light with him.
The moon brushed out of the pines, cast its glow on the lake.
I drifted, fly drifted through the silver-blue night.
A silver trout pulled on the fly, let go.
“Bestir yourself; time to be on your way.”
The moon led me home.