The poem “Casting”

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Casting

Crisp swish of the morning air, hard whip
From an old man’s gentle, disciplined hands 
Wading past the cypress trees, whirring line 
Jumping through hoops, running for its life, 
Offering a delicate fly as prize
With a sudden, soft turn of the wrist, 
A cue from the conductor’s baton, 
Orchestrating the decrescendo 
Above a captive, quiet audience, 
Above the crayfish seated with gar, 
The early cover of lily pads   
Shading season ticket holders,
As the angler, breath held, queues
A deep boom from the percussion section.

Jason Z Guest