Ron P. Swegman

Sunnies At Sunset

1967 Angler
Small Fry: The Lure of the Little

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Philadelphia on the Fly

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for H. S.

My cousin and I,
We climb stones at dusk,
Sneaking up on sunfish
Dutifully guarding their beds.
My bobber rattles against my rod.
Brian serves out a "Shhhhh!"
I acknowledge his advice
With an index finger gesture.
Positioned, we bait hooks,
Hope for the lively tug of life,
The rainbow-colored trophies
We can equally, happily release.
Suddenly, I goof under pressure;
A slip sends my glasses plopping,
Visible three feet out, one foot down,
Front and center sunfish central.
And it's getting dark.
Brian chuckles, smiles my way,
Corrects my sorry myopic state
With a clever rod tip dip and pull-up,
Complete with slide-back delivery.
Minutes later, we hook into 'em.
Bobbers splashing, both in heaven,
We count ten bluegill, a bass for Brian,
And three sunfish, my favorite, for me.
The walk back is tired tones, dirty hands,
A short, mutual inspection of trees.
Short stop talk, too, about Rennie and Willie:
Will the Triple Crown beat Cincinnati?
At the end of it all, Grandma, by the car:
Bags of fruit, questions and answers;
KDKA radio recaps the game;
We thank her for the wisdom she shares.

copyright 2005 by ron P. swegman. all rights reserved.