A Poet Fishes

At this opening of trees

he finds his place again,

water slow around the boulders,

sun streaks needle thin

 

Grabs a spinner,

nightmare blue with hidden hooks,

lines sever shadows

everywhere he looks

 

If he conjures skill enough and luck,

something from deep down

will spear the surface

and lure him from the ground

 

It needn’t be trout

or bass: channel cat,

pumpkin head, anything

that leaps will flash