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Montana calls, an old friend
I haven’t seen for years.
We were close once but I left her for Alaska
only to return to the Big Horn country of the Crow
and the river filled with brown and rainbow
calling out my name.
Then I followed eastern roots
and cozied up to Maine
to learn the wiles of landlocked salmon,
the brute force of lakebound bass.
But now I hear the call of wolves
returned to Yellowstone
and like the wolves I feel the pull
of Tetons and Rocky Mountain crests
of moose and bear and sheep
and rivers named Madison and Gallatin and Fire Hole,
a call so strong I’ll have to go, fly rod in my hand.
Poem by Alan Harawitz Photo by Damon Bungard
2 comments:
It's calling me soon....I can't wait!
Have a great trip Troutdawg. Share pix when you get back.
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