When I go down to the fishing pond,
through meadows no one mows,
I pass the quail that hide beneath
the tufts that bluestems grow.
And when I come to the water’s edge,
where giant cattails reach
above my head, I find my hook
and think: a worm or leach?
I sit beside a river birch
and raise my rod to cast,
then hear my father’s gentle voice
as in summer days long passed.
But when the solo fishing’s done
and memories are through,
I gather up my catch and gear
and hurry home to you.