Fish Hands (September 22, 2010)

A layer of skin.
Peeled away through fishin’.
A stern Northeast wind.
A ball of fire greeting us.
Be quiet. Not a stir or fuss.
For a beautiful bounty is a must.
Our bills stack high.
The bait is sampled by flies.
I shift glance to morning skies.
I forget my troubles.
Observing wake and bubbles.
I think I like my fisherman’s stubble.
A contradiction of tranquility and grit.
A job made for swearing and spit.
An offering of my spirit.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s