We Fish
The road is dusty
but not the air.
It is thick with fragrance.
The rocks are hot and flat.
The sun? Furious and friendly.
Fence rows rise above.
On either side, tall, strong
green corn peeks over their tops.
The fences stretch up and away
over the hill ahead
under the welcoming arms of oaks.
They edge the road way back
down the hill;
down from where we came.
Up the next. Over the horizon.
Cerulean blue the sky.
Overhead the leaves
busily rustle the breeze's secret
held in their highest reaches.
Here we step, cane poles in hand,
can of worms fresh dug,
old, rusty hooks, newfound.
The dew lifts.
Her cheeks flush with morning
warming to the sun.
Water's laughter discloses
the cool glade
under golden shade
where we sit on the bank
feet dangling.
Current washing off the dust.
Washing off the hot road,
and the weight of the world.
We cast. Bobbers joyfully bob;
dutiful sentinels for the distracted.
The air freshens.
Our eyes meet.
We laugh.
We kiss.
We fish.