The thing about a lake is the crazymen who fish there, in the copper-hearted flow where cold springsand greasy seaweed gather.Shimmer. Buckle. Fish bodieswrithe beneath, more lifealways where one can’t reach.More life always where watchingis not allowed. The poles maydip as the day saunters on,yellow light bending towardafternoon or maybe no mouthsreach, tug on bait left danglingin a morning thought.
Photo by Saad Chaudhry on Unsplash