Poetry (Day82): Fishing

   Fishing

 

The old man held the line
in gentle fingers,
barely in the
here and now
at all. He sat
as if the sitting
was the thing itself.

No luck today, he said.

He didn’t mind
but followed the line
with his eyes
all the way up
to the kite

and wondered
what bait he would need
to attract the gods.

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