Through four seasons we remember the fish
we caught, the first to cast on Verdi Pond
our line between old Bobbers, lake weed frond,
to share with Belted Kingfisher our wish.
Our tackle neatly organized in box
on pier away from Fremont Cottonwood
where all of us and Bewick’s Wren both stood,
to lose a hook or two in mossy rocks.
An old mill pond that used to store lumber,
revealing Comstock ghosts in Jeffrey Pine,
now spawning channel for Lahontan Trout.
Our poles in still requiem remember
when youthful trout begin to pull on line,
a local Quail will re-examine route.
A stretch of Ponderosa resort land
where Glen Verdi would fish until sunset,
where fire and fish ensured their needs were met,
a vacation with Blue Heron as planned.
My family fishes here in history
among the willow cathedral of sounds
as worms begin to dig in foreign grounds
and plunge into the waters green story.
By every foot our tackle box with latch,
we stare upon the ripples for a bite
and wonder do we pull the line in fast.
Each child waits patiently to see a catch,
to reel in tiny fish, an Autumn rite,
a silent prayer accompanies each cast.
We place the worm evenly on our hooks,
ensure our line is threaded to the tip
and with our arms pulled back beyond the top,
to cast so far we feel we’ve made the books.
To loose the bail and watch the spin line roll,
a line up through its guide and far away,
a weight tells Bobber where to land and stay,
a finger holds the line up to the pole.
A place to catch but only with a calm,
this patient calm that may produce a fish
upon our plate, with lemon, for our meal.
We lift each morsel up without a qualm.
A day of memories here upon our dish,
the laughs our stories force us to reveal.