The One That Didn't Get Away

Early morning quiet,
the lake absolutely still,
nary a ripple to mar the surface,
no birdsong yet, no plop of frog-
silence in the predawn barely-there light.

Aged fishing pole, red and white bobber,
a sunny sized hook and bits of bread rolled
into small balls between sips of coffee.

I am loathe to disturb the sheer softness
as dawn comes up to day-
the sky casting mauves gently across its expanse.

A lone streak of cloud hooks on
catching tones of pink underbelly
and a robin warbles and a nearby frog
catches a sleepy bug.

Breaded hook sends ripples circling
ever wider 'til they meet dock and shore.
The island, still shadowed by the mountain
looms greyblue, pines aspire towards lightening sky-
just tall tips illuminated.

Bobber bobs and some satisfied sunny
swims away with breakfast from the Hook Cafe.
Casting, sending seconds by hook delivery.
I wish for my pen, my paper
having been baited by this watercolor morn
I have caught my trophy and need to record it.