Fisherman, at level bank, long away from the pier
where the fish are allowed to be calm.
A long hyphen flenses the white sky
its comma hooked with worm snaps into the water.
Old orange sunlight converses with the ripples,
Fisherman watches quietly.
A rusting can of worms lies open nearby
the worms dead, spilled
carefully on frozen ground.
Fisherman appreciates their silence,
the lack of activity and soft gloam
as pines rustle on the far side of the river.
The world is old, rusted shut. None speak
in language. A story is whispered on the far bank
where no one listens
and the water stills to shore.
Fisherman watches fish swim by
where no one understands
what they don’t need to.
A cold light rises,
the line remains slack and blue.