Though I am very late,
the lake is waiting for me.
A bright trout comes to the fly,
goes back in the water
taking the light with him.
Then the moon,
brushing out of the pines,
casts its glow on the lake.
I drift, fly drifts
down silver streams of night.
A shining trout pulls on the line,
lets go.
I nod back:
Yes; time to be on my way.
The moon leads me home.
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