Poetry

These October mornings
waiting for a line of bass
or any fish to appear
losing no time
on the shore's tall grass
by dawn's dock 
in a row boat or kayak
over the motionless shore
on Atlantic's ocean waters
embracing an opening wave
by a back up school
of salmon in a frenzy 
then motionless 
in an A.M. silence
of too much cool memory
already tasting the filet
fried and cooked 
along the sea.