The Art of Fishing...

The tanned skin on his hand
Wrinkles as he bends it back at the wrist.
He glances at the top of the pearly fishing pole,
Raised high above the surface.
His wrist, like a catapult,
Releases the pressure and
Grandpa swings the pole over the water, cutting the air.
Fishing line whirs from the reel.
The small plastic worm plops into the water.
Lowering the rod and
Tipping his hat up, then down,
My Grandpa reaches one index finger
Into a frayed belt loop
And adjusts his trousers.
His hands have clenched
Too many wrenches
And his cracking fingers
Have pricked themselves many times
With the very hook they rig,
While sitting on the back bench
Of the faded green rowboat.
He settles into the quiescence of the pond
Hearing only the grunting bullfrog,
Seeing only the twilight
Hover on the water
With the dragonflies.