un­ti­tled 17

Angler sits on river­bank
wait­ing for friends to call
one has Whiskers
one a Lantern Jaw.

A line in deep wa­ters
clouds, time stream by
for com­pany squir­rels,
a hawk in the sky.

Watching, wait­ing
check­ing Worm on hook
day flows to dusk
and shad­ows the brook.

Night gen­tly falls
Angler packs up, leaves.
No fish joins the meal
wind through trees.

Shame has no place
at home with­out fish,
many other things
fill a din­ner dish.

Not about sport
this Fisherman’s art,
hook­ing the Silence
that’s the best part.

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