A River Never Sleeps

There are strange things done ‘neath the tidal run by the men who troll the spoon.

The sensitive tip in the angler’s grip is beating a come-hither tune.

The man on the oars alert to the course of the rip along the bar - Together they wait the flashing lure’s fate and the strike that comes with a jar.

Each tide on the make attracts in its wake great Tyees down from the North.

Awaiting the thrill of destiny’s will, anglers in rowboats go forth.

A float in the chop the action may stop - ‘tis weed on the hook of the lure?

A sought after take from a Tyee’s mistake - the latter’s desired, for sure.

Inaction perceived, the spoon is retreived, the weed removed with a shake.

But rodman and guide together abide the prospect a Tyee will take.

Yet tide after tide that hope is denied. as hours and days proceed.

But all is not weed, the lure has been freed, both rod and oars now take heed.

‘Neath the tidal run the prize to be won faces a breach of its space, The passionate quench of a gyrating wench flashing a dare in its face.

With lightening attack the rashling strikes back, grasping with treacherous jaws; The one might crunch, it learns it’s not lunch - too late, too late it withdraws.

A shake and a squirm, the hook fastened firm, away in the draw of the tide - With our nerves stretched taut to face the onslaught of a tense and spirited ride.

The line running wild, we anglers beguiled by the strength of a strickened Tyee - In panic its race to distance its space from the bind that arrests its flee.

And hour’s been spent, the ocean’s been rent, the line a constraining link - Capacity gone, its will to live on lapses nearer the brink.

Now, time’s running out, life’s wavering about beneath the skin of the sea - Its match has been met, and into the net, an end to a noble Tyee.