The Yakima's Measured Grace

Where basalt cliffs in shadow sleep,

And cottonwoods begin to sigh,

The Yakima, a secret deep,

Reflects the pale and waking sky.

The air is cool, the scent is sage,

A quiet hum before the heat,

We turn a new and hopeful page,

With wading boots upon our feet.

The line unspools, a silken thread,

That dances out in measured grace,

A gentle loop above the head,

Then settles soft upon the space

Where currents carve a glassy run,

And hungry trout are known to lie,

A flash of silver in the sun,

Beneath the drift of caddis fly.

The river's song, a constant sound,

A liquid music, clear and strong,

No finer fishing can be found,

Where we have waited for so long.

The canyon walls hold history old,

Of ancient flow and patient stone,

A story waiting to unfold,

A peace the city has not known.

And round the bend, a kindred soul,

With rod in hand and knowing eye,

We share the river's deep control,

Beneath the same vast, open sky.

A nod exchanged, a whispered word,

Of hatches thick and flies that bite,

A common passion is conferred,

In morning's gold and fading light.

For here the bond is quickly made,

By shared devotion to the stream,

No finer fellowship is played,

Than living out this angler's dream.

The Yakima, a famous name,

A place of beauty, wild and free,

We cast our hopes, we play the game,

In perfect, shared serenity.