Here's a poem I just wrote and a photo I took last fall:

Whatever It Is You're Taking

Palmered hackles on sun-roil owe more

to floatant than this clipped Corgi-hair 

body Uncle Mort tied drunk on Schnapps.

How many times have you seen this much

neon green backing howl toward the gullet

of a woozy gold brown that fought like

a side-hooked snorkel-hoser?  And it's

always just before the sun's fat goldfish starts 

hoovering flakes off fall's cobalt.  When your

brass head soft weight keeps freezing up so 

you have to stuff it down your waders and 

wedge it under your dick to soften it up

is generally when you give up and fish 

midges dry between slush and ice hunks 

that look like Liberace's piano until you 

take another hit of whatever it is you're

taking and they look like some glass blower 

blew the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

Did someone say spring, or is that just

the sound your five-weight makes when

you cast without ice in your guides?

Stripping a wad of tinsel and chartreuse

marabou where this spring feeds into

chocolate bunny runoff, you can't see 

a foot down, so you sink that far again 

into the soft bottom and go in over your 

waders while a pissed off kilo of rainbow 

arcs up under the pussy willows and snaps

off your Bugger where the currents meet.  

Damn, don't that just deep fry your clams

into fritters, pretty much like when summer

float-trippers start their Suburban shuttle

and you can only see baloney boats and 

MacKenzies all the way up God's green ass?