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LAST SATURDAY Today, the last Saturday in April, where a quaint river ambles by, making new challenges to try. When the magic hope of springtime makes an old man feel ever-sly. Today, the last Saturday in April, where brighter blue fills the sky, making tired old feet step high. When the magic hope of springtime makes an old man feel ever-spry. Today, the last Saturday in April, where trout season has drawn nigh, with a flyrod and a special new tied fly. When the magic hope of springtime proves nar'y a finer place to pass time by. Today, the last Saturday in April, where dreams, hope or souls shall never die. God's fishing today, so His time I'll occupy. He'll be guiding me and showing me just why, He's Master of the river, a trout and a fly. |
Additional Notes:
With only one Saturday left in this month, I felt it might be an appropriate
time to post this poem as I sit here with my fly-boxes filled waiting for
the new trout season to begin next week, traditionally in Michigan, always
the last Saturday in April. This poem was written on the banks of the
Manistee River about three years ago, on the Last Saturday in April.
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