“TROUTY”

The far off hills

     Are bare and brown;

The maddened rills

     Go plunging down.

The ice no more

     Withholds its flow;

The wooded shore

     Is clear of snow.

The angler who

     Resides in town

Now takes his cue

     And hurries down

To where in glee

     The stream boils out –

He thinks that he

     Can sniff a trout.

Feb. 28, ‘05