Keith E. Sparks Jr.
On a rock-strewn bank of Buffalo,
a spinner's cast from Hollow Tree,
I sit, rod propped on a locust limb,
pilfered from a beaver's domain
and watch the fallen leaf
that drifts where line and water meet,
catch briefly in a twitch of false triumph.
No man, It's a bite!
I know the difference.
A gentle tug of line—released,
it makes way for swifter waters
where stream and creek combine
just below a farmer's bridge.
Hats in hand to shield the eyes,
together, two boys peer ...