My righthand side holds a sink basin flopping with sunnies

Slimy and desperate, gills flapping like a gasping breath

Through the hole-covered screen window,

I converse with my grandfather about our catches

Without removing eyes from the subject before me

Carefully etching the gleaming knife in a pattern

Taught to me years before

Under the tin roof of this old shack,

I slap a new panfish onto the crimson stained cutting board

The skin grasping him is rough and crusty,

Blood and scales

This task has given me that, but with pride

In this generational tradition

The stale scent of a thousand memories, 

And another thousand catches,

Meets the northern air of the outdoors through the screen

I pile thick slices of my final product, on my left

And for the first time, glance up at grandpa

He smiles through his silver lake beard

And I return a grin

Man, I love this job