A better day than many

Today's weather, from late morning on, was near perfect. The Better Half served as navigator while we poked around some nooks and crannies (and access points) of a trout stream's watershed about and hour and a half south of here. We found several that we hadn't know about and that look promising. Several others looked interesting but there didn't seem to be safe parking areas near the bridges. The road shoulders promptly dropped off into moderately steep ditches.

not the stream we explored today, but a lot like it

Photo by J. Harrington

We both enjoyed traipsing through the mostly rural farm country. The navigator managed to get us part way home on a county road that doesn't appear on the state highway map we were using. If I remember, tomorrow I'll check the DeLorme atlas. About twenty years ago, I used to fish the midsections of the stream regularly. Rarely did I explore the upper reaches of the water. That's where we wandered today. A few more days like today and I may begin to return to what used to pass for my mellow self.

In honor of our successful excursion, today's poem is about the finer, more magical aspects of trout fishing. Try it if you haven't. The same can be said about poetry, especially by such s Mr. Yeats. (Here's a secret, The Waterboys have put these words to music.)

The Song of Wandering Aengus

By William Butler Yeats

I went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire a-flame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And someone called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done,

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.

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