I went fishing the other day.
Sat on a rock covered in the faded remains of duck shit,
and cast my line into lily-padded water.
Far away, trucks droned over the highway.
Politicians screamed in horror. Pompeii burned,
and all the dinosaurs dropped dead.
An asteroid’s shockwave from sixty million years ago rippled my pond;
the geese resting on the far side flapped their wings
and formed ranks to fly south,
their shadows on the water scattering a school of minnows.
Nearby, a blue heron perched on one leg and pondered his reflection.
I got a bite, and wrestled with a catfish for a millennium,
but when I hauled in my hook I found nothing but weeds.
So I sat back down and watched the sunset for a while.
A little kingfisher donned his steepled crown and jousted with a sunfish,
crowing victory among the reeds like Caesar in Gaul.
Dusk fell, and the heron rose,
The shadow of primeval glory in his crooked neck.
The flutter of a world’s heartbeat in his enduring wings.
The air was full with falling leaves, and rain.
It smelled like gratitude.