A Fisherman’s Tale and a Lovely Dance
The dock was splashed
as if with white paint from a modern artist
who threw it in great dollops
and with obvious enjoyment.
Fly artist fly
with your cry that recalls
all my ocean experience,
swoop and snatch this eager fisher’s
bait mid-cast then tussle
twirling in aerobatic bird brawl.
I remember the sun touched my hair
and the boards were scarred and splintered
and all around was lively air
that took my perfect well placed cast, anyway,
and angled it and twisted it just so
around the wooden post where seabird sat
in apparent nonchalance.
This bait was better fish
than any I could perceive in the undulating
murky depth before me, I thought,
and took to tossing it in the air
for free falling seagull catch game
which charmed me more and made the gnarled
man next to me with full bucket, smile.
And so I wild away a day on sun warmed
seagull waste that was so sweet
that I can almost taste the salt air
and hear the music,
for this was a lovely dance.
In the dew of little things,
the heart finds its morning
and is refreshed.
[This message has been edited by Martie (edited 04-14-2000).]