Young men sit

under an indigo sky

patient.

Poles extend over water

meanwhile

 

The first fisherman stops

over taken in thought

for in his haste he has neglected his eyes.

 

Focussed on receiving a fresh catch

rather than shifting his telescope to the horizon

for surrounding him are the makings of a painting

the brush strokes performed by God himself

his teeth appeared on his face

 

Absorbing this wonderful sight

his ears he then directed

to the place he was sitting

for surrounding him are the makings of a symphony

composed by God himself

 

Birdsongs, zipping dragonflies floating on the calm

breeze, stirring the pond upon which poles extend over

the water

 

The deep blues of the ocean above, clouds like crests

of rolling waves

Emerald trees filter the sun through their leaves

 

A tug on the rod breaks his concentration

As he reels in his catch the smile he puton 

widens as a silent applause to the performance he

witnessed.