Before The Move

The Deschutes still runs cold,

quick,

cut deep through basalt

where trout hold tight in seams

and rise like ghosts

when the light softens.

I know this water—

its moods,

its silence,

how to read its current

like scripture written in motion.

---

But I’m heading south soon.

Texas waits—

not empty,

just different.

Rivers there still move,

still breathe,

but they carry heat,

carry bass instead of trout,

life thick in the eddies

and under the brushy banks.

---

I picture the casts—

big flies,

bold strikes,

no sipping here.

Just violence and weight

when the line goes tight.

---

I’ll miss the cold,

miss the clarity.

But I’m not giving up the river,

only learning a new tongue—

swapping the hymnals

of freestone creeks

for the gospel

of southern flows.

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And when that first bass

breaks the surface,

maybe I’ll stop mourning

what I’ve left behind

and start praising

what I’ve stepped into.