Every spring, after the shell of ice cracks
the lake is reborn: kokanee, mackinaw,
and rainbow hunger for whatever they can find.

By mid-summer, the fish that haven’t been caught
are too smart or have become apathetic.

Come September, it’s time to hang up the poles.
The big ones are down deep
and only trout leap at sunset.

If you visit the general store,
they display photos of anglers
holding up huge salmon
and smiling like lottery winners.

Fishing is not about the fish.
It’s not even about how lucky
or unlucky you are. It’s about
letting out the line
without expectations,
telling good stories,
enjoying the company,
and reeling in the moment.


This poem first appeared in Windfall.
Used here with permission.