Something of what the eye took in is translated Trunk of a cottonwood, label it Populus trichocarpa. Is an extension from the wrist to the lungeĪnd snap of a Cutthroat Trout. Everyone knowsĪ cast is not a question of strength so muchĪs a relinquishing, that the line’s release On his heels just hours ago, sent a line keening I watch him sleep, recall how he settled back The crown of his head, the belly’s swell, the ankle. Their tales crisscrossed as if in sacrament.īetween their fingers, the smell of themselves On the window, dry streams left by gulls. The women who clean fish are all named Rose The best part is you don’t have to find someone to bait your hook. We’ve netted 10 fishing poems for you to enjoy on a day when you’d rather be fishing. In the absence of a boat, and a fish wriggling on the line, fishing poems offer a fine relaxing substitute. A confession: I often prefer the weed because I still don’t prefer to take the fish off the hook. I like having nothing more to do than watch a red and white bobber bobbing around the surface of the water, waiting for the visual cue to tell me whether the hook has brushed by a weed or if I’ve snagged Moby Dick. It’s been a few years since I’ve been out, but as a grownup, I find leaning back with my feet resting on the edge of a fishing boat, wide open water on every side, to be one of the most relaxing things on earth. In the end, I couldn’t take a fish from a hook to save my life, nor, sadly enough, that of the fish. Gills, to my young mind looked like nothing less than a bear trap made for a six-year-old’s hand. Zeal was never his greatest challenge when it came to having me on his boat rather, the challenge was wheedling me into removing a fish from the hook, which I still say would be made easier if the fish would close its eyes and hold its breath, or at minimum, stop breathing from outside its body. My grandfather took guests out on a launch boat for fishing outings, but when my cousins and siblings and I were around, he rented a pontoon at a smaller neighboring lake that was stocked with sunnies so he could take us all out at once, without fear of one of us overzealous young fisherpersons overturning the boat. Many of my childhood summers included week-long stays a couple of hours north of my home with my grandparents, who owned a resort on Lake Mille Lacs, now embattled over dwindling counts of its famous walleye. I grew up in the state which prides itself as the land of ten thousand lakes.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |