(for my late father)
Stiff wind, skate across the lake
time to wet a line…
Fingers, once nimble,
tasks once simple
now betray the angler’s mind.
Trolling slow, through the wake,
White caps, choppy might
tosses bobbing boat, still afloat—
safe, from morn to night.
Cast away, through fog or gale…
sunshine’s day divine.
Attention to surface tension,
the while, o’ how flies time.
Growing cold, rain pelts down,
gray lake, clouds doth make.
Darker, grows the pond, now forever bond
with angler, and his take.
Fishing, so like the sunset
passes, all too Swift.*
Sinking horizon, keep your eyes on
the catch that is the fish.
*a reference to Swift Reservoir on the Lewis River
Gregory E. Zschomler, author of more than a dozen books, and his wife own Harbor Books in Aberdeen, Washington.
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