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.