November Steelhead

With the weak November sun and high treed bank the deep dark pool waters reflect no light nor sign of silver fish beneath the surface Silent save for the murmur of a downstream riffle and the kingfisher’s rattle then a tug on my line the screech of the reel’s drag a splash, a glimpse of a fresh steelhead The tug now a frantic upstream run I bite my lip and taste my blood then my line goes slack, the fish is free and the reel stem cold between my fingers