Fishing My Way
by Nancy Shires



Bait a hook,
toss it in.
Now watch
how sunset pinks
the water,
streaks violet and fire
above tree line
and below;
how the iridescent
wood duck calls
his clear whoo-eek
like a frantic hinge;
how just across
the cut, in poplars
laced with vines,
a tribe of nimble-
fingered, masked
raccoons stuff themselves
on grapes gone ripe.
When you reel
your hook back in,
it might fetch
a bottom-feeding catfish
or not.





Illya's Honey Literary Journal

Copyright by Dallas Poets Community. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.