The Fish

Time and money are spent
gathering implements
for a day on the water.
Practice with rod and line,
a red piece of yarn
for a fly against the
green grass, it flows
through the air with
the grace of a dancer.

Over and back and again
perfecting the cast,
in trepid anticipation
of the battle to come.

The sweet smell of tall
grass and wildflowers
and the muskiness of
decay along the river bank
and with boots in mud
I wade out, as a warrior
into danger, my weapons
in hand.

The practiced cast, the
careful aim, the fly
lands perfectly. Tricks
and deception, the tools
of the trade, and the enemy
loads the line with instant
weight. Exploding from
the safety of it’s world
it lunges skyward like
a majestic winged dragon
only to be dragged earthward,
unfairly, unfittingly,
insultingly, deceived.

As the winner, the champion
of this immortal battle
of wills, I hoist the
fish on high, displaying
my trophy, beaming at my
hunting prowess and for
all that,

the fish only wanted
something to eat.

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