The kayak glides along with the quiet leaves
that ride upon the cold Canadian undercurrent
and I am surrounded by a canvas of carotenoid color
stamped on the still river bank while my mind
focuses on the plastic bobber willing it to move

All I need is just a nibble, just one small nibble
to set the hook in its lip and I'll be fired wide awake
like a shot of espresso falling backward from the
seat of minds lazy slumber and the numbing
contentedness of Autumn as she casts her hibernating
spell on me and the fish which are surely in agreement,
pocketed down deep in siesta as cold as
water sogged logs since they aren't biting

But there is a part of me that won't resign to the likelihood
that this time of year most likely has them puckered
up with barometric bulimia so I keep fishing,
and waiting, and hoping that my rod tip will bend
and fit me into the landscape like I belong

Written by Sara Fielder © Nov 2015