The Last of My Spring Creek Mosquito Bites

The last of my Armstrong Spring Creek mosquito bites fade quickly from my body like the end of a movie leaving the screen. I'm here on the California coast. It's foggy. The Pacific crashes. I'm far away from that beautiful creek outside of Livingston, Montana, where the sunset echoed off the mountains to remain in my eyes longer than its existence.

I could still see the sunset after it was gone.

The mosquitoes bit the hell out of me a few evenings ago while I explored a hatch of May flies like an astronomer but instead of discovering a new comet, I hooked a good German brown trout on my rod.

I lost him but I didn't feel bad because I've come to know that there isn't enough space in your life to keep everything.

You'd run out of room.

Good-bye, mosquito bites.