Fishing

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I stand on the wobbly dock,
boats rock back and forth,
under the bright orange sun
on a warm summer day.

The hook snaps past my ear in a hurry,
but the weight lags behind.
The silver shines in my eye
zipping gracefully through the air
landing with a plop in front of me.

A bite on the hook makes the rod bend,
the force of the fish moves the rod side to side.
I real in the slick blue rod,
fishing line wrapping around the spool;
the hook glides through the water.

A scaly, slimy fish pops out
dripping with water.
Small, skinny, and out of its element,
hanging by a hook in it’s mouth.

Gasping for air,
it looks at me with sad eyes.
It doesn’t move.

It’s dry mouth slides off the hook.
He lays in my hand for a second,
before diving back into the murky water of the bay.
My first and last fish.





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