Before I toss my lure into the stream
stocked with hungry rainbows
I say a silent prayer to my prey:
“If you take the bait I thank you in advance
for your sacrifice; know that you will be
dinner tonight.”
First cast and there’s the
unmistakable bam, tug-tug-tug of a hit
as if the fish wishes to offer itself up.
Later that night sautéed with pancetta
and chive butter, the former sleeve of multicolor muscle
lies quietly on my plate. Dusted with flour and done
 to a turn, it bears no resemblance to its former glory,
shorn of head and tail to satisfy the squeamish
who do not wish to recall the dark secret that sticks
in our throats like tiny trout bones. Even the best Bordeaux
won’t wash it down.
Where does it all end, this hunt for survival,
the taking of flesh to be
made again daily and isn’t this
the most sacred act we know?

The sun is still rising over the lake
when we arrive; I don’t know
why I’m here except
you seem to need this
sport of your youth back again.
Bass is your one happy obsession
and I am glad to aid and abet you in this
new, old passion.
My eyes work the shoreline hoping
to spot the eagle that haunts the preserve
or even some mischievous raccoon.
Nothing matters.
I can content myself with watching the lap of water against
wood or even the wind playing hide and seek in the leaves.
Still your pleasure is to see me fish. Obediently I cast
and there’s a nibble, or at least I think it is.
You warn that I’ve snagged my line on a rock or submerged log;
a fish on the line would feel different.
Lesson over, you cast into the waiting blue and I,
happy to have caught bottom know nothing matters,
except the way the sun illuminates
your peaceful face.
                        

It is good to be near green;
sweet grass growing even through concrete,
leaves in every conceivable design
gracing oak or rose or vine, peaceful pastures
where cradled in emerald you can surrender
to the sky all regrets and worries of Time.

Glimpse a glacial lake redolent of moss whose
milfoil arms camouflage suspending bass,
beryl carvings hidden in that protective embrace
from the flash of spinning blade and treble hook.
It is good to be swathed in incense of growing things
a scent both fresh and ancient,

good to follow the stream weaving
through deep forest to the heart
of the evergreen cathedral sculpted stone 
by stone from the days and ways of your life 
purring greenly there in the silence
like the prayer that it is.