Fishing

Crisp blue-brown water splashed down,
cascading over the deceivingly slippery stones.
Limpid water rushed to meet the boulders,
eager to splash the sandy surface of the shore.


Smaller rocks created gentle ripples made
transparent by the ever-present, beaming sun.
Patches of sodden earth poked through, dense tufts
of grass shot out like a porcupine's bristling backside.

Pickle weed and cottontail reeds lodged in the
landscape densely filling the remaining area.
River trout and small-mouthed bass darted, warily
avoiding the fisherman’s hook.

Sunlight reflected off clear water into the
fisherman's deep blue eyes. He squinted as the
searing white hot light, sliced through him.

The river glided by him In his slick waterproof rubber waders, held by green expandable straps. He held his new rod from Cabella’s with general ease.

He whisked the fishing rod to and fro, making the willow fly dance in the water. Time flew by as the fisher reaped no success.

He remembered the old saying, "Fishing isn't catching, it's fishing." The joy of fishing comes from the tranquility he thought.

In the midst of this lull, a sharp pull signals a catch.
He reeled in a squirming sixteen inch small-mouthed bass.
With a final tug, he pulled the squirming bass onto the sandy beach bed.

Skin colored grains of sand stuck to the fish as it
flapped wildly in search of water.
The confident fisherman pulled the bass up by the clear line, undid the hook in its mouth,
and gently placed it back in the water's care.

He rested his rod against a rock, looked into the crisp blue sky, and smiled.