THE GIFT OF THE STREAM
By L. Woodrow Ross

Ere the sunrise grace the morn and start me on my way,
the wisp of fog upon the water delays full breaking of the day.
I rise to seek the silver sprite that spirits through the deep,
even if I capture him, he soon will be released.
His colors are like a rainbow reflecting in the sun,
as he leaps from the water thinking he has won.
He took the bit of feather floating in the foam;
retreating to the emerald depths where he has made his home.
The barb’s sharp sting puzzles him and makes him shake his head,
and as he struggles toward submerged rocks, I have a feel of dread.
He wraps about once, twice and soon his freedom comes.
The fight is fairly fought, his freedom has been won.
I do not count escape a loss as he glides away,
for this provides a reason to come another day.
The point is not to capture, but pursue and challenge him,
deciding what to tie and cast that caters to his whim.
I’m thankful for the gift of days that can I haunt the streams,
enjoying sparkling water and forests fresh and green.
If I never get to cast a line or see the stream again,
I’m thankful for the days I had and I can say, ”I’ve been”.