Tuesday, November 1, 2022

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

No comments: