FISH

One who fishes waits with patience in abundance,

Hoping to witness the delicate hop of the bobber

While at the same time wishing it not to move,

So they may continue to lie in comfort,

Alone but surrounded.

One who fishes enjoys the quiet of a Sunday afternoon alongside a

noiseless country creek,

Or under the glorious arms of the trees surrounding a pond

That is just well enough hidden that none will stumble upon their

makeshift nest.

No boat required to reach the deepest part,

Or the far bank of the creek,

As this expert with the rod casts the hook exactly where it needs to be

And settles in to a comfortable recline to wait for the dance to begin.

To fish is to think,

About why clouds become dinosaurs chased away by rabbits,

Or why the breeze only stirs the very tops of the trees

Shunned by the rest of the branches.

To fish is to witness a beaver gliding through the water,

Or a muskrat telling you that these fish are his.

To fish is know that the ringlets on the surface can mean the fish are hungry,

Or the insects are active.

To fish is to understand the language of the bullfrog

And take his message to heart.

To fish is to understand the meaning of solitude,

And to embrace the wonder of silence.

To fish is to pass along the joy of having nothing to do save relax,

And be filled with the awe that eventually catches anyone willing to let it in.

And sometimes, to fish is to eat beans.