
Originally Posted by
Bonefish
Its Smallmouth Time
Its late autumn
Gone are leaves of color
That glow in reds and gold
At dawn barren trees
Reflect in frosted silver
Upon mirrored glass
Standing tall against
Cliffs of ashen stone
As the sun begins to rise
Long dark shadows fade
To weathered meadows
Across retreating fields
Dew laden spider webs
Sparkle as prism lace
Upon the honeysuckle
Somewhere across
The shimmering lacustrine
Echoes a loon’s haunting call
Its smallmouth time
That “tap-tap” on your jig line
That “top-water” explosion
Evoking child-like emotion
I know you agree
There’s nowhere else
I would rather be
Roy L. Nave
October, 2013