There is so much to notice,

starting with the shape of the land in this place

beneath the big tree roots that’s roly-poly,

not something you’d notice if you’re my size

but definitely as an ant or a snake.

Next we come to the lake where the fishers fish

where someone brought a little yapping dog

and a kid hardly big enough to walk

and the dog is bossing the kid around

and looks like a French teacher I once had,

all shoulders no neck.

They have a radio going,

and as I stand in the morning with the trees it takes hold,

some song from the 70s with a lot of sax,

it spills across the water the way the sun at dusk might

(or like maple syrup hitting your table linens,

depending on how you feel about saxophones).

One angler is saying to the other,

most people don’t know how to cast—

and he says it like he’s an expert, just before casting himself.

I leave the four of them (the two anglers, the kid and the dog)

wondering, do I know how to cast?

Or are my lines all crossed or worse,

abandoned in trees,

the spinners, lures and spoons

untouched forever, unnoticed:

bait that wouldn’t fool a fish.

Categories: poetry, writing

Tags: poem, poetry