We sail in histories
of our own manufacture,
our shamans chanting
songs of thermalclines.
We troll for manitus,
worship Glo-in-the-dark wobblies
and fate -- might-a, could-a, would-a
if only you gents had been here
last week when electric pink
can-do, can't-miss gizmos
fast-hauled fathoms-deep
over Japanese-made transducers
from Bob's Baits limited us out
seven days running.

I am drawn to brawny water,
wading at first light
through gray rollers
on weightless feet
over green gneiss stones
the size of softballs,
my limp line glistening
cold, ice in the eyelets
squinting into a dull sun.
I cast blindly, free-spooling
for coasters, scions spawned
from German genes.

I have no urgency
in my soul or schedule,
like the fish
I am too whimsical
to be conquered
with regularity.
We are chaos,
our own order
like the sweet sea
which nurtures trout,
kills with a smile.