I’m sitting on my old dock
on Salter’s pond in Maine
waiting for when the bass
begin to bite and my pole
starts to wriggle as if it was
doing a Saint Vitus Dance.
Chickadees begin to sing,
waking up the bullfrogs
along the shore who join
in on top of moss-covered
stones as if it was New Years
Eve galumphing pure joy.
Clouds of no-see-ums on
the move confront clusters
of stately cattails who bow
in meek surrender as sunrise
appears through locust trees.
Time has stopped. I love now.