A mile walk through muggy July woods
standing dead timber draws nearer
as we reach the marshy shore
of our flooded destination

We wade wearing tennis shoes and jeans
into water whose coolness is welcome
and whose familiar depths are known

Bearing rods and reels and weedless lures
which twirl and splash across the surface
except when stopped
suddenly
by striking large mouth bass
The wake of battle disturbs the surface film
and we chide each other in good nature
for each fish not landed

Only enough kept for supper
( the point of this trip is not food )

Now the afternoon sun lowers
toward leafy horizon
as wood ducks and mallards buzz by us
in squadrons
and two pterodactyl- like blue cranes wave past

Wet explosions of beaver tails
announcing their annoyance at invaders ( us )

Arms and wrists weary from our pleasure
time to leave ere darkness catches us
( Can't see snakes sans sunlight )

Another treasured memory of younger years
and departed brother
fishing at the beaver ponds