by Wilda Morris
I can only imagine what itís like
to go fly fishing, wading boots feeling out
a river bed, cool water coursing
over stones, sun beginning to fade.
But I have watched a heron tip-toe
through wetland ponds, suddenly dip
sharp beak into its own rippling reflection,
and rise with a glistening meal.
I have seen an egretís white wings
soar the sky like sails before floating down
to the shallows where it snacked on dragonflies
while awaiting a bigger meal.
I have watched gaggles of geese skid
onto the water, ignore marine vertebrates
and cattails, dive below the surface
to graze on aquatic plants as fish glide by.
I have seen a double-crested cormorantís head
rise, snake-like, from the lake,
then disappear beneath the waves
until its needs were satisfied.
Once, at camp, I stood on a wooden dock,
cast a worm-baited line into Spring Lake,
and pulled in a catfish. I was proud
and serene as a fly-fisherman.