Bass Fishing

A warm summer day built to the past.

Rising mist, lifting air and whistling sounds.

Days at school not to hold the last?

No heavy breathing, no heart that pounds.

Saw the kingfisher perched in a stare.

By the fallen tree and rocks wearing moss.

Squinting my eyes and wondering at the glare.

My first cast is long with an effortless toss.

The splash takes to a wide hooping ring;

A tug, a bump and then I feel slack.

To remember that ripple makes my thought sting.

Watch that line tighten, straighten and move back.

I land her in quickly like nothing at all.

A five pounder plus, how I do love this, she’s meant for the wall.

This poem is about: 
Me

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