The mountain lake is filled with native trout,
awaiting my arrival every year
to view seductive lures and hear me shout
in search of echo over silver mirror.
 
And underneath the surface lurks the beast
I'd hooked for seconds many years ago
with bending pole and thoughts of gourmet feast
until my line went slack in evening's glow.
 
Another time, I thought, I'll catch this fish
and hear my line and drag burst out in song;
perhaps today I'll get my patient wish
unless the monster proves to be too strong.
 
Five miles of backwoods trails I've sweat and trod
to learn that I forgot to bring my rod.


© by C.F. Kelly.
Used with the author's permission.