Angle- Poem by Fred Rik Kesner

'angling angler, angled—'


You ask me what's your angle,
as if the line between us were straight,
as if its cast were clean.

But I've seen how you stand at the bank,
how your wrist turns before the throw,
how the lure brightens only when someone watches.

There is no geometry here—
only that slow pull of intention
moving through water which never settles.

If I rise, it is not for the shine.
If I follow, it is not for the hook.
It is because something in the drift
answers something in the drift of you.

Call it angle if you must.
I call it the quiet moment
before the surface breaks.





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