Washing the Wound

​I notched off a piece of skin, right at the base of my pointer finger, last night. 

Being stubborn when a simple snip would have done. 

This morning, I knew I had to get out and up into the woods. 

I left in the dark and hit the dirt roads just as my Stanley mug drained of coffee. 

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Black winged caddis fluttered and flailed up stream.  Inches at a time.

The wind caught some rhododendron and for a second it sounded like 
barbed wire on aluminum foil. 

Most people are with family today for the holiday.  It's why I have this water to myself. 

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Just a thought
​while I change flies, chew on some beef jerky, and let the cold limestone water, 
the hue of moss and mud, 
wash my wound clean.