Lounging on a flat rock
beside a culvert,
letting a baby crawler
bump hisself downstream,
through the ringed metal tunnel,
no snags,
a definite allure
for the lazy.
A tug,
a bump, a gentle take,
I pull it back
and let it go,
eight inches of greenback.
An old man with gnarled hands,
liver spots,
grasping a Moon Pie,
chocolate flakes
in his mustaches,
staring down, says,
chuckling,
Be damned, catching fish
in a tube and this the first
I know of,
probably a blind pig finds an acorn
now and then,
like this, I suppose.
Not the first,
but the eighth
in only an hour,
trout, like ideas, being seldom
where others expect them.