Fishing is Mesmerizing

Fishing is Mesmerizing 

Fishing was something I did 

a lot when I was kid. 

Loved to roam the creek bank 

with my Zebco pole and reel, 

green over-the-shoulder fishing bag, 

and a band-aide can full of nightcrawlers 

freshly caught the night before 

as they lounged in the lushness 

of our watered lawn. I yearned 

to plunk my line in the swift current, 

let it glide gracefully into the big hole 

under the cottonwoods, 

mixed with a few quakies. 

For some reason, I expected a strike 

the moment it hit the still water 

of the hole, expected something 

to happen to stir my soul, 

convince me that today was my day.

Often, it didn’t happen, 

and I watched crestfallen 

as the line scooted out 

into the fast water again 

without a tug or even the tiniest nimble. 

I reeled it in slowly, repetitiously, 

like I knew what I was doing, 

knowing I would do this again, 

time and time again 

with no luck, no strike, and no fish— 

at least for now, thinking 

my luck was changing. 

Fishing is mesmerizing, 

addictive in a sense. 

Once you tired of one bend in the creek, 

you head to another, 

feeling lucky and blessed simultaneously, 

meandering along the creek bank, 

soaking in the quietness 

mixed with the flow of the creek, 

the birds singing, the lone deer eyeing you 

hidden in the brush, just beyond the next hole, 

and some red licorice in your jacket pocket 

just waiting to be eaten. 

November 1, 2022