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Gone Fishin'
3 poems
By Greg German
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Updated 02-09-07 |
As A
Catfisherman...
of a long time, just inside the design of a nap. I think him onto the hook. When he bites--it feels the way a dog looks stretching after a good sleep. I tell myself a well-rooted stump has taken the bait, and believe that until convinced otherwise. I test my nerve. And if it holds and wants to pull my feelings up stream, I bite down hard on my heart--anticipate what will happen if he gets away. Now, I'll do what I think best. And if I catch him, I'll stare at him. I'll look at the size of that thing. I won't wonder if there is one bigger, and I won't come back tomorrow.
Originally Published in
As A Bass Fisherman...
along the edge of the pond at the corner of evening and night—my attention caught, my momentum stopped by the orange of the day’s last dim light. And the pull of one nighthawk that dips and skims, maneuvers with air-smooth cadence through shadows, toward home. Cool spills across the pasture. Cows and calves ignore me. The final red-wing blackbird settles through cattails to its nest. Conflicts of mosquitoes congregate along shore. No one thing matters more than I am here. No one thing cares. Darkness nudges between the hills. Two bullfrogs dual deep throated grudges, divide the silence. Almost taken, I cast my last hope up and out, across the water.
Originally published in |
As A Bored Catfisherman...
and discover a little something about time. Something big has fallen, crashed since my last fishing here; and now, where the green sky has been, there is a deep, blue hole. The cottonwood, always too large for me to climb, rests like I imagine a dinosaur would stand over the river, breathing its last summer. After what has been ages I scale onto its back and move, bank to bank.
Originally Published in
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