The lake waters shiver – not with the cold
– it's mild enough with my collar pulled up
as I watch the current loosening the skeins
of drifting weed.
Aimless at first, but then
as if needing to flee, they are plucked
from their mooring roots, slithering free.
That’s when I recall the eel
on the end of the line – my squeal
as I, winding in, rod bent in a half moon,
hold on as if I have no choice but
to fight the serpent who scythes the air.
My grasp weakens, I let go
of the rod – drop the keep net.
Like memory itself
the nylon line snakes through the water,
drawn taut before the final delve.
Today, the glinty fish are relaxed
– all shimmering flesh, flicking tails,
driving their dorsal fins through green coils.
Mouthing. They are lured, not
by an inexperienced angler
but by the patterns made by insects.