The sun, barely woken up itself,
shy’s just behind the tree-line.

Scampering to gather up their last belongings,
To drive awhile in silent morning.

Headed towards the still lakes,
Wondering if the fish are awake.

Casts that barely go anywhere, and
tangled lines that lead nowhere.


Little hands struggling,
To be like dad, to make him proud.

No fish yet,
but there’s still time.

Determined little ones are they,
For they just want to spend their day,
Fishing, existing with their dad.