A flick of the wrist:
the spotted lure sails across
the stream and blurps
into the shadow under the far bank.
The current catches my flash.
Another flick of the wrist,
gentler this time, and the rod tip
aligns the spinner’s drift.
I am fishing this morning
from my chair where the spinning
finds a different catch and release:
a current of thoughts where
scales weigh my native language.
My lure is wet, my feet are dry,
beneath the surface is how I seek.
(top: azgfd.net; poem “on the fin”: tackletour.com)