New news on the home-front: new poem.


Moving Clouds   


Tonight, a commercial airplane passes overhead
as I continue fishing.
No luck tonight, and its utterly dark.
The grass is soaked, my socks wet,
and I keep losing my train of thought.
It begins someplace,
and ends up somewhere else.
Then, I return to fishing.
To my bait colliding with small sunken rocks
on the bottom of the pond.
I wonder if, comparatively, I'm a true fisherman.
Who would say?
My eyes coast around the pond.
Light emerges in places.
One man wears a miner's light.
Finally, the Big Dipper
emerges boldly from a series of clouds.