She is perched on the pier
a lonely mourning dove
rather than a stalking hawk.
Legs pouring over the red cedar //
toes playfully kissing the mist
of lulling lake waves against the dock.
She waits over the fish staring
at the drowning worm her father
pierced with the rusted hook.
Three fish // silver like new quarters
coming towards her //
towards this earth thing in water.
Every time they begin to kiss //
nibble // the worm // she tugs the
line and the creatures scatter.
She intends to catch one each time //
she flicks her wrist too soon each time
and each time she can’t catch a fish //
she doesn’t seem to mind.