Just down river, a short distance from the dam,
There is a borrow pit, once filled with gravel and sand.
Now it’s a pond not too big, not too small,
Where I would run to fish when my friends would call.
There on the banks a contest would begin,
Champion trout verses novice fishermen.
The trout had the advantage, it was in his home court,
Every time I tried; I would end up a bit short.
One day the trout was a bit off his game,
I snared this warrior, my new claim to fame.
I held the trout tightly as I carefully removed the hook.
I looked him in the eyes as both hands of mine shook.
He seemed to say, “You got me this time.”
“We can do this again, if you let me off your line.”
So, back in the water I gently released this graceful foe,
He swam a few feet, turned to wink, then he would go.
The trout and I would meet many more times,— Albert L Swope
He became an old friend at the end of my line,
Sometimes I’d catch him, other times I wouldn’t get close.
My friend from the borrow pit, my most gracious host.