This poem was recently revised, and due to formatting problems has been re-posted out of chronological order.

Fishing Out of Season

Jan 27 2009

In a cold hard winter

I think about fish.

Black water

flat from lack of air.

Contained

under thick ice

under piles of virgin snow.

So sun-blind white

I can’t help tearing-up,

warm salt

sharp on my tongue.

I picture a man in a boat.

The lake is dead calm,

high noon heat

boiling-off.

I can see insects

skitter and spin

on its glassy surface

this way and that.

And for the unpredictable instant

in which they pause,

the tiny meniscus

tugging up each flimsy leg.

Invisible fish, angling up at them,

eyes goggling, puckered mouths.

The reflection hurts my eyes;

looking down

at puffs of cloud

a perfect sky.

Fishing is an act of faith -

line tossed, surface breaks,

the hooked bait

falling

into dark unknowable depths.

You must believe

the lake will provide;

an offering

for this patient man,

casting-out methodically

in hopes the fish will bite.

Sometimes, I wonder idly

what lurks in the depths

prowling beneath the boat.

When something hits --

                   and my reel whirrrs

                                                          line tightens

                                                                                   I’m over the side.

                                ~

                                      ~

                                             ~

                                                      ~

                                                              ~

            Into cold black water

                       down too deep for light.