Voices on the Wind
Voices on Relaxation
What fishing means
by Mark Vogel
There’s nothing like a friend who can tell you
you’re just pissing in the wind.
Neil Young, On the Beach.
Pretending indifference throwing lures
at cold and wind never imagined in the dream,
and still a hope quivers,
a watery religion for alienated morning,
a belief that maybe thrives
in the breeze ruffling the flow.
In the movie beneath so quickly habit
marries misty fog, and another
upright attuned fisherman feels
the subtle pull—bullhead,
brook trout, bass—another quiet
cast for the tentative bluegill nibble,
the pause returning to calm,
then a long deep insistence,
the confident taking line—
then the panicked run,
though maybe in the crazed
vibrating line, fisherman doubt
too is real, even as a striped
torpedo bass leaps free
bigger than dreamed, fighting,
darting, leaping again, until
gulping, squirming, seeking home
the flopping on the ground.
The fisherman savors wet thankful
kneeling release, then stands
as tall vision in light burning morning,
as another foot seeks immersion
in streaming white clouds floating
in the mirror, eyes reading the new
mature alive silver shifting.