The lake this morning
is covered by fog. My little
dog waits impatiently for me
to take her fishing as I
gaze upon the rose
fingered dawn and anticipate
a good catch of fish.
I sit on the bank facing
the rising sun. I'm hidden
in the cattails and only a
thin cane pole can be seen
poking out, with a light
line and bobber barely seen.
I don't cast a shadow, I'm
as still as an old stump. The
fish will never see me sitting
here in the tall cattails. Fish
aren't stupid but they can't resist
bait food when they're hungry.
I'm counting on their hunger
for my breakfast. Now, if only
my dog will be still.
Dec.2020
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem