I cast my line--
It soars through the placid breeze of the gulf,
And plops into the rushing waters of the reservoir,
Descending to the depths of the ocean.
I hold the rod with one hand
And reach with the other
Into a bag of pork rinds,
Brushed lightly with barbecue salt.
Staring up at the sun, I laugh
And gaze around the jetty,
Where others are sitting,
Yawning, Waiting,
Slowly, I open my cooler,
Home to only a bream--
A slow day indeed.
The sun begins to melt away into the clouds above.
I yawn, drifting into a light sleep.
Shortly after I feel a sharp tug
and stand abruptly,
Holding the clear fishing line against my rod.
Yanking with my left hand,
And winding with my right
I reel the line in slowly,
As it swings from side to side--
A whiting this time.
As I carefully remove my catch
Lightning flashes in the distance,
Followed by a mighty, poignant roar.
I feel a drizzle on my neck and stare at the sky
As I gaze around the jetty, others are packing up,
Ready to call it a day.
I follow suit and pack up my supplies,
Gathering my rods,
My bait, my net.
A neighbor walks by on the way to his truck,
“How many ya catch?” he asks.
“ ‘Bout two,” I say.
“Lousy day, ain’t it?” he says as he walks away.
I turn around, stare at the ocean and laugh.
I am hours away from the office--
Today was a good day.