This was our meditation
Casting of the last evening ray
Across our shoulders
Our squinting eyes
Or hands cupped around cold
coke cans and striking
At the mosquitoes who
Threatened us at our collars
Our ankles
Our ears
While we tried to pay attention
To our lures and our line,
Guarding against another bird nest on the spool
Quiet, except for the damnable buzzing
And invisible frogs,
Little minstrels in the grass along the shore
With the shades of dragonflies bombing
The nymphs in the shallows
“Move it just a bit”, “Ok, let it sit”.
Okay
The crackling of the cricket bait
In that white plastic container
With the holes in the lid
The bobber drops under
Then it’s back up and dancing a bit
“Wait”
Nothing
“Put another one on.”
The line drips on our hands
On the lids of our drinks
Drops a slink of wet moss on your shoes
You take a sip anyway from the can, but tilt it
Just to pretend you aren’t drinking the pond water
The lid comes off and another gladiator
Antennae flared, kicking, gives up to the hook
Under the carapace once, then around through the abdomen
They stay alive forever it seems
Impaled and struggling across the water
Cast the warrior out
“Put him near that tree”, the one that overhangs
Where we saw the heron chicks last year
The cricket disappears in its shadow
But the ripples move out
He’s still fighting the hook
Kicking and fighting the hook
The line drives down
Pulls to the left
Pulls and shudders
In our minds it’s the best fish in the pond
Gills swelling in the black water
Scales ignited with vigor, eyes wide
Fierce as a shark in the mud
“Not too fast now, you might rip the hook out.”
Okay
Water droplets flank off the first rung as the line comes in
The pond dances
Small waves glance out across
Over the shallow sunk moss
Like green rolls of submerged wool
Turn by turn
“I’ll get the stringer”.
Okay.
The coke can tips over
Rolls across the fiberglass floor
A paddle is in the way, clanks loudly
The boat makes it sound like a cannon across the pond
Our little war, right here in the mossy water
The line pulls again
Flash of scales
Our gladiator cricket
Our champion of the evening hour
Has brought us a victory
We think
The hook glints in its mouth
The stringer is out
Into the boat, panting like a hot cat
The little mossy bass flips its last fighting energy
Gets water on our jeans
We slap mosquitoes again
He’s too small isn’t he.
“Yeah.”
Hook gently out
Next month, buddy. Sink him back down
Into the black water and the moss
Carefully, slowly
The most precious thing in the world

Pour out the last of that warm soda can
It’s dark enough now to mistake lily stalks for snakes
The gloaming moves into that yellow-grey
That intoxicates the eyes
“I wonder if she’ll have dinner made”.
No. We agree. We were supposed to bring it.
We’ll tell her it was too small
It was really pretty, though
“It’ll make for a great catch later in the summer”.
It will.
Let the rods and stringer dry on the front porch overnight.
We wash the tackiness of bug spray from our forearms
And complain about how bad they were, in our ears
Around our collars and our ankles
“But that was a pretty little fish, wasn’t it?”
Yes. It was.

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