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Evening run, Black Drum

 

 

 

 

Music fills the truck, streams out the windows

Guitar riffs crying, drifting where the wind goes,

Roll up, slide out,

Rig a rod, fly doubt,

Yeah. That one... Knot it.

Search for extra tippet, hemos… got it.

Striding across wind-dried sand,

Worn cork of an old 7wt in hand.

Water’s edge; feel the old thrill,

Stop and watch, but no time to kill.

The sun hurries belowground,

Wading gently forward, make no sound…

C’mon fish… There!

A tail, waving gently in dusk-dripping air,

Right where he’s supposed to be.

The moment most appreciated, by such as me.

Time for finesse – drop it in there just right.

Tail drops, but you can never tell when they… strip tight!

After a bulldog rush, fish comes to hand…

Black drum, last light trip, out here in the promised land.

Last light bite.

 

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