MY TIME

A nibble here and a small fish there with the occasional whir of the trolling motor interrupting the methodical swish of a fishing line as the plastic worm undulates in its slow dance across the rocky and sometimes tree strewn bottom of the clear waters of the lake as a practiced finger senses the vibration of the monofilament line ready to instantly trigger the body into a back stiffening, arm jerking, violent set of the hook should the unwise largemouth bass decide this worm is indeed a late night snack, which he does and the jab of the barb sends the angry fish upward, bursting through the surface of the lake, arching his seven pound body against the pull of the taut line, with the water drops glittering in the moon light shining from behind and reflecting off the bit of limestone wall framed by the dark brush on either side and wins the battle with a mighty shake of his massive head; a splash back into the deep and a slow victorious swim away as the line lies listlessly on the surface tension of the water while the fisherman regains his breath,puts away his tackle, and the big motor growls, the boat turns away from this momentarily glorious time and place, then heads for home with no more  proof of this magical moment but the images in his mind.