Fly Fishing has been named in several ways, but maybe is not in the names we have choosen for it that we’ll find the reason why fly fishing is so special. It’s rather something that belongs to the emotions more than to the names. To this fabolous muse tons of books have been written and all the time  from those pages emerges a world made by fantasy, adventures and grace, painted by the wise hands of the poetry.

Ah yes, fly fishing is poetry.

It’s poetry in every single face that every angler engraves following personal and preferred passions….it’s the path of a whole life which from a rough diamond becomes day by day more brilliant and refined, in leaving aside from the angle you’re looking to it.

Fly fishing is something that goes beyond the time and the seasons, keeping its sense also when it’s detached from the element in which she was born and without which it would not make sense to exist. Maybe it’s exactly during moments like those that fly fishing cross the border and the act of casting a line in the wind becomes philosphy.

So when the fall comes and the trout flishing season is over fly fishing poetry keep showing itself in all its grace.

It could be really great to be in Maine in this time of the year! Those magic color of the fall are so unique in that part of the world. But i live in Abruzzo and despite all the technological innovations that have been envolved the world of humans and goods trasnportation, the Maine is so far from here.

1The Abruzzo then, and this wonderful wood, is not so bad.

Out from the window the colors of a beech are iridescent.

Sat at this table it’s quite easy to get lost in the magic of those colors and in the the ones of the feathers layed on the table. Each feather just wait to be choosen and gain a new life between the abdomen of a thin ephemera or like a wing of a sulky brown caddis. The mind gets empty, at every round of the feather around the hook. When the fly is done the look stop on that shape for a moment.

Betweens the wonderful greens, and yellows and reds, the first snowflake falls down lightly. It’s time the fireplace get started. At the first light of the flame the look goes back to that fly stuck on the vise, and stop on it, just for a moment.

Then the memories of the past fishing season come back to the mind and from the mind to the heart. ….hairs stand on the skin.

It happens all the time….cast by cast, fly after fly, feather by feather.

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