Tags
contemplation, fishing, old friends, old logs, old streams, Solitude, trout
He wades while he deftly fishes,
his mind always on the alert,
even though he knows,
he may not get a hit,
in this unusually,
large pool.
He anticipates the productive pool,
just below the silvery riffles,
that are only 100 yards,
yet 45 minutes away.
He carefully wades,
so as not to spook,
any errant fish,
that may be in,
this pool.
His anticipation builds,
as he nears the riffles,
however – a songbird,
a warbler he guesses,
calls to him.
He knows it calls to him,
because there is no one,
else on this stream,
this morning.
And he forgets the riffles,
and sits on the old log,
that rests on the side,
of the stream.
He lights his briar pipe,
full of good tobacco,
and enjoys nature.
The solitude brings back,
memories of a friend,
who once fished with,
him – on this stream.
They would not speak,
just fish and enjoy,
the others company.
Now he wonders – quietly,
if his friend can see him,
fishing in their stream,
and if he can see him,
does he enjoy the day?
The old friend suffers no longer,
from the daily pain of illness,
and not the envious type,
so the fisherman knows,
his friend must be,
enjoying the day,
along with him.
So now he is obligated,
to catch a big fish,
for and with his,
unforgotten,
friend.
© Copy written for what I will never know.
waldotomosky 