Wolves howl at the moon shining over the ridge
Golden light glancing off the silver steel girders,
Slithers of squiggly speckles ripple in the stream
After the trotline is suspended between buoys
The night fishermen play five-card stud poker,
And swap tall tales about their youthful follies.
written October 31, 2021
Categories:
trotline, fishing, night,
Form: Free verse
It was the last and largest of the seven
Still asquirm under the gill crushing thumb
The fresh honed blade slid in at the head
and sliced along the back fin to the tail
He came back to the head slid the point
across to the start of the belly
then ran his finger down the back cut
for a lifting start to the fillet
The knife followed riding the ribs
And moments later that side of the perch was
lying skin down but still attached on the cutting board
He slid the point under the eye and twist spooned out the cheek
Pulling it whole from the eye with his fingers
The other side took less time and in less than a minute
He had two fillets and two more cheeks to add to the rest
The skin and bone carcasses would bait the trotline tonight.
Seven small perch would need a thick potato sauce
To fill the plates at supper
His eyes lit up as he saw a patch of lilies on the edge of the path
The bulbs would serve as soup with just a touch of bacon ,butter ,and onion
He shut off the truck in the driveway
Getting out to the smell of fresh baking
And the sound of laughter
Sport fishin' just aint the same game
Categories:
trotline, food, life, nature,
Form: Bio