Independence, California (Fishing!) Poem by Lynn W. Petty

To Jimmy Reina and Earl Meade,
Who introduced me to fishing.

A man must be alone with friends, his kind.
Escaping traffic, phones, the stress of mind.
Dispelling corporate pomp, to dream, to think,
Returning back to touch his primal link.

There is a place just off three ninety-five.
A fishing spot where men can breath, revive.
Where worth is based upon the catch per day.
Not measured counting holdings, status, pay.

Where from the desert sands the mountains rise,
Contrasting granite with the azure skies.
Where prayer is silent, inner, whole, complete,
Within the closet of one's self, God's seat.

Enclosed in speechless splendor, nature's shrine,
Its altar, lowered boughs of sugar pine.
One hears the distant voice of poetry,
The song of birds, of stream, of life, carefree.

With true, unswerving friends, who build redoubt,
Around one's battered fort, against self-doubt.
Who rise to feel the bite of morning air,
With coffee, bacon, eggs, their morning fare.

Who heat their backs against the campsite blaze,
Awaiting sunrise with its warming rays.
With breakfast over, poles all rigged to start,
It's upstream, downstream, each his way, they part.

They fish in ripple, pothole, quiet pool,
To take the limit, five is now the rule.
Fatigue is more the case than limit brought,
Exaggerations (lies) are what they caught.

If all were in the creel that 'Got away, '
Consider hunger in this world 'passé'.
Like stragglers from a lost patrol, they come,
Disheveled, rumpled, somewhat pained and numb.

Dismayed, they find excuses for their plight,
They question how the fish became so bright.
All gathered then to speak of what their cost,
The numbers of the 'Big ones' that were lost.

No water body, even in their dreams,
Could hold the fish they 'Saw' within these streams.
Around the campground, after their return,
Their dinner seemed to be their main concern.

What fish there were (Not leaving food to fate)
Potatoes, steak and corn, had filled each plate.
Late noonday turned to nightfall, sun had set.
The burning logs had not died out quite yet.

We spoke of tales we all had heard before,
Some minor variations, not much more.
With embers out, our hearts were still aglow,
A calm, within, had reached a new plateau.

The lucent, vivid sky was one vast star,
Descriptions far beyond vernacular.
With sleep upon us, fresh the evening air,
Uplifted spirits in complete repair.

As time devours itself, tomorrow soon
Becomes today, and at the stroke of noon,
As all good things must finally do, they end.
With friendship, fishing, food, the perfect blend,
The combination for a grand weekend.