The World Is Perfect

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The world is perfect -

the sky is vast and biblical

as the Sistine ceiling.

Down here among the mortals

water laps at the side 

of our aluminum hull 

like a loyal spaniel.

Waves lift us,

gently lower us,

in rhythm

to the moon's clock.

The magnificent fireball sun 

extinguishes salmon pink

behind shoreline trees,

cottage lights blink on

signalling that fish 

will soon be biting: Quiet 

anticipation.

A carefully chosen lure 

wobbles and jerks

mimicking prey, catching

the day's last rays  

in weedy depths,

flash of chrome

to trick pike or bass 

into suddenly attacking -

turn predator into prey.

Who will be lucky

who not

                STRIKE!

               (like a missile)

      our cradle skiff 

jolts, rocks

        with violence

and surprise.

Senses are returned quickly  

by the work at hand,

shriek of whizzing reel,

command of bowing rod,

tug and splash

of struggle -

the primal desire 

to be free.

In a few minutes

the dorsal fin 

full of spikes surfaces,

sleek elongated body

about the length of an arm,

green with yellow spots,

tail flapping like a small flag -

toothy prehistoric mouth

hooked clean 

between lip and snout;

tired now,

too tired

to fight 

anymore.