Tomfoolery with a Dry Fly

Oh my dry fly! Flit through the air. Whiz, and whir, snake through the sky. Fall on the water, like a cotton wood seed. Don’t make a sound. Sit there, on the flimsy film, floating on the flow, following the fluttering flap.

Sit there you bastard. You sit there on the water, and you drift. Drift into that feeding lane; that razor thin slice of window where the tiny trout will snatch our snag and snooker itself on our satirical snare. Silence… as we cast.

Fall short of the hole, and beg yourself a new place within the jowl of our little speckled friend you floating entomological bit of japery impersonating an Ephemeroptera. 

Find your slot, and glide. Glide into the trough of the tiny wave. Sink your hackle tips into the film and hornswoggle that salmonid. Sell yourself to the aqueous flimflam and find our adversary.

Find them and bring them to me.


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