Prose

Gulf Fishing

Two miles out from river mouth, clear green water.

An old man in small skiff, drifting for trout, perhaps

redfish. Old man rigged one rod with popping cork

and shrimp. One rod with weed-less jig. Ocean

flat, tide flowing out, distance boats headed for

grouper. Wife said, “Get man at marina to go, too.”

”Okay,” he lied, craving solitude, recalling past

fishing trips. Small trout released back to the sea.

Large trout in live-well for wife to see. Much luck,

then sandwich and cola under hot cloudless sky.

Drifting, with dry anchor on skiff floor. Redfish

spoon cast to each side of skiff. Reeled slowly,

with hope, but to no avail. Drooping eyelids, dreams

of other days: big grouper pulled from hidden holes

beside sunken ships. Tide turning, old man at peace,

untroubled. Slow waves heading toward rocky shore.

Skiff sliding on shallow water over fish nestled in

sea grass. Old man feeling tremor, then stillness