Pocket water, how I love you,
let me count the ways,
You’ve saved my net from uselessness
on, oh, so many days.
Your lovely seams, rocks, and cuts
do constantly provide
Many sublime places
for trout to lurk and hide.
Your bold boulders break
the roiling river’s rage
As brookies rest from currents
and their appetites assuage.

 

The Deerfield, East Branch, Farmington
All have your drifts,
The Quinapoxet, the Housatonic,
but not so much the Swift.
With you, I don’t have to guess
Where trout hide in secrecy,
Your foam and dark water
show where they’ll likely be.
I always cherish your presence,
come spring, summer, fall
Other types of water,
I care nothing for at all.

 

As I approach you, I listen
to your soft murmurs of delight.
I trace the curves of your bottom
with my fly line so tight.
You receive my fly with pleasure,
your current pulls it down,
It lingers there in rapture,
where opportunity abounds.

 

Others love their glades and glides,
skinny water and deep pools,
But as for me, you’re the most wonderful
of all the river’s jewels.