A trickster of fish and gambler of fate,
here in the house I dream and wait,
of warmer water and warmer weather,
here amongst my fur and feathers.
Preparing for battle on the lakes and springs,
creating my weapons of tails and wings,
thread and tinsel, dubbing and hackle,
all the tools to create my tackle.
Tweaking this and trimming that,
the wings stand up, the tail laid flat,
the body tapered, head whipped tight,
a sharpened hook ready for the fight.
I sit back and gaze in admiration,
and without a moment’s hesitation,
tell myself that old angler’s lie,
that I have tied the perfect fly.