I remember the dock warped, weathered, worn
smooth from years of sun and water. Plunked
face down I peer between the gray slats

watch the perch slide by ignoring
my baited hook. My young eyes fix
on a shard of sunlight and color

that gradually resolves into a 2-foot pike.
Floating in place, its body ripples front
to back, front to back looking ready to lunge

for the perch. But with a quick muscular
flick it disappears, leaving eddies
of whirling sand. I shiver. I was struck

when I read of a father who recently found his son
in their cabin boathouse surrounded by rods, reels,
fishing tackle—playing an electronic fishing game.