A dirty gray horizon
splattered with pink.

Holding back breath behind
sun-cracked lips,
vision strained to see through
dark water.

Scanning and exhaling slowly,
tired eyes
manifest black-tipped fins
in the slick.

Moving slowly
from right to left as one,
intent and electric,
a low frequency vibrates through the flat.

The pair pushes in on a rising tide,
angled for an intercept.

Feather and fur lashed to steel,
with the delicate tension of daydreams.
Fifty feet and closing you let one fly,
fully committed to the dance.

Explosive airborne droplets glisten,
as the skirmish commences in the
young light of a new day.

Tight but unsure you hedge your bet,
strip-set hard a second time,
force-feed lightning
as all hell breaks loose.

This article was originally published in Volume Ten, Issue Two of The Flyfish Journal.


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