Marshall Cutchin photo
“My fingers started out the season cold, and I guess they will end cold,” my friend said as we fished the Taylor River in the freezing rain last weekend. Shaking the snow out of the boots in the morning was a crisp message that we were enjoying our last hours of trout-hunting. I was reminded of a Ken Hada poem, “A Blessing,” which Garrison Keillor happened to read on Writer’s Almanac yesterday.
“A good tiredness claims us
from slipping over rocks, pushing rapids –
sunup to sundown – sneaking
toward a target, eyes squinting
casting into winter wind.”
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