Bluegrass spills from the Ford’s open doors,
so a symphony of washboards and banjos
floods the winding banks.
Glinting rush glazes worn river stones
and flashing silver lures that sank
who knows how long ago.
A blue sky stretches high, bright,
and cloudless above us, only blemished
by intermittent crow flight.
Their dark wings cast shadows
across the cool water and give
all the basking fish fright.
I’m five and bathing in a dapple of sunshine,
warming my freckles and wandering mind,
reel in hand and eye on the line.
Tug-Tug-Tug… A bite!?
I scramble, and my plastic pink pole handle jams,
so I fall backward instead, yanking the fish from rush
in less of a catch and more of a dredge.
It wriggles on the grassy slope
in a show of shimmering scales
and gawping hope.
It’s wonderfully alien the way
so much is
in those early days.
But when I glimpse the hook
piercing its clay-gray face,
barbaric and gore-slick,
I panic.
We’re all born acquainted
with the rich pulse of life
and the red flag
of pain.
I scream, shrilly parting
bluegrass twang
and startling the dark crows
onto their shadow wings.
Suffice it to say,
I never fish
again.
pm poetry 