Sep 9 2009 7:49 pm
It starts the fires of the apocalypse on the horizon burning and the bulbous gray storm clouds rolling down from the mountains over the high desert. They threaten torrents but rain never comes. The black volcanic ridges of the graben crumble in real time as the wind tears down their flanks and blows sand hard through the greasewood chico brush. Rattlesnakes hide in the knot at the bottom of every clump of bunchgrass. The fly line bows out in the wind and the six inch deceiver slaps loudly down onto the river. An olive silver arc explodes from behind the fly. I don’t get bit by a rattle snake.