Most beautiful, in my eyes;
The form which casts dry flies;

Casting the fly is truly an art;
For the fly weighs much less than a dart;

Ten o'clock-one o'clock, power, power;
Over extend and it all goes sour;

Truly finesse, rhythm and grace;
Greenhorns, wear a hat to protect your face;

Pick-ups and presentations no longer part the brook;
It's time to try the hook;

The experts all agree;
You're only fishing when the fly floats drag free;

Backcast, forecast, fly on the water;
What's the matter, it's swimming like an otter;

Oh I know, it's the wrong leader;
Much better now, just hooked a large Cedar;

Match the hatch, fish the clock, strike with might;
Oh god, my first bite;
Truly this is the Holy Water;

Darkness falls, the hatch is on, fish rising;
That I catch one is not surprising;

What a moment pure and clear;
How I've waited for many a year;

With years of practice my skill grows;
As I watch others in the early throes;

Novices, I've been watching you;
Though usually silent, here's a tip true;
Fish the hole before wading through;

Roll pick-ups, horizontal casts low in the sky;
Overheard, Butch to Sundance, "Who is that guy ?";

Those days all but gone;
Tendinitis has left me wan;

I remember a father, son and old rented boat;
Trolling flies on lines that did not float;

I'm not sure what Lefty, Gary, or Rusty would say;
But we caught several nice Rainbows that day.

W.J. Mallory