Fishing still

I went to wet a line in a local pond
and conjure peace by waving my fishing wand.
I walked alone in the muted evening sun
in hope the workday traffic noise was done.
The pond was still and echoed the sky and trees,
deserving lures that cast with soft reprise.
To fish the way the waters’ spirits flow
allows a deeper catch few anglers know.
I learned to fish this way from Dad at dawn,
but then, at dusk, I wondered if it was gone.
I felt a grief, of sorts, to be the last
and was about to mourn a wisdom passed
when a sudden ripple led my eye to look
toward a log that held a bobber by its hook.
Another angler fished this pond—a boy
or girl, I hoped–who knew the quiet joy
of fishing still and found the truest love
beneath the muddied surface and not above.
“There’s hope,” I thought, then raised my rod to fish
and laughed. “That’s more a prayer than fact or wish.”
I cast a heavy lure and let it sink:
The time had come to be and not to think.