From shore, I watch a bass flit
in the shallows among the boulders
and the shadows of a tree. When the fish
freezes, when a spasm flips it,
I close my eyes. I don’t look toward
the idled boat or the man who shakes
his line, who sounds pink-silver needles
across the lake to pierce the fish’s mind…
click-click…gone. Lured by a castanet choir
of blades, by the dancing legs of bait,
the fish is hooked. It fights the pressure
of the line, the suffocating air with a rage
too enormous not to tire.
I feel the golden-brown body settle
into the man’s warm hand; I listen to him croon:
“Hello sugar…pretty little rascal…you’ll do…
yes, you will…you’ll do.”
Vicki Kennelly Stock
previously published in The Flying Island
