There are Stretches – A Poem By Sean Carey

August 5, 2013 § Leave a comment


There are stretches of the creeks we fish

That tell a story of place

There are stretches full of sand

There are others sloped and freestone

There are stretches that need adjusting

There are others left alone

There are stretches that just click

There are others that leave you searching

There are stretches that look of promise but nobody’s home

There are stretches I keep a secret

There are others piled with Saturday cars

There are stretches that have footprints

There are others lined with trails

Tromped down yesterday by deer and trespassers

There are stretches that leave you breathless

In the trudging through head-height grass / knee-deep snow kind of way

There are stretches that remind me of the West

There are others that remind me of Wes

There are creeks that feel like rivers

There are “rivers” you can jump across

There are stretches that leave me puzzled

There are stretches that put me in awe

There are stretches that can make us weep

There are others that hold sheep

There are stretches that downright suck

There are others we call honey-holes

There are hollows where the birds nest

There are willows where we lay and rest

There are stretches that change

Washed out, hell-bent, and there ain’t no stopping that flood

There are criks that are murky

What lies in those lairs of deep?

There are springs that flow from a rockwall

There are holes like aquariums

There are stretches that always remind you of a friend

There are stretches you can see in your head

Every bend, every riffle-run-pool like a movie

Always moving, never sitting

There are stretches that teach

There are stretches that keep (your flies mostly)

There are stretches that cut through pasture

There are others that will engross you

Alder-choked, thicket topped, dim-lit mysteries

That probably hold a big or two

There are stretches you only fish in spring

And there are others that call to you in summer

There’s that stretch where you took a fall

There’s that stretch you’ve only fished in the fall

There are stretches you’ll never fish – you can’t fish it all

There are stretches that invite you

There are others where your feet stay wet

Or sneak around like a hunter in the woods

There’s a stretch where a fawn fell

There’s a stretch we call the storm spot

There’s a stretch we call the coulee section

There’s a stretch we call the Canyon

There’s a stretch we call the Stonehammer

There’s a fly we call the Klinkhammer

There’s a stretch where we got hammered

There’s a stretch that has “The Hole”

The one-true-pure-circle of life-all’s-right-with-the-world hole

There are stretches where you lose time

Focused on the stillness

Of a thousand tiny things happening in front of you

There are stretches we call home

There are even some that define us





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