Fishing

by Douglas Polk

toes sink into the sandy bottom of the fishing pond,
a pedicure and massage,
wading in the warm water,
waves lap against knee and calve,
soothing both mind and soul,
birds call across the water,
keeping a neighborly eye on those of us who don't belong,
beavers or otters across the pond,
go about their daily routine,
worm mounted a the hook,
and the bobber on,
a graceful arc,
ripples spread as the bobber nestles into place,
enjoy the trees and sky,
enjoy the wait,
the strike sudden,
an electric jolt,
numbs both heart and hands,
until the bass reeled in,
a prayer said,
and with a thank you,
the fish released,
therapy of the very best kind at the fishing hole.