I felt a little nibble.
My hand twitched.
I scrawl a few words,
then wait some more.
I hope for a strike.
My pen waits,
circling white paper,
drawing pictures in the air
as I cast out the bait.

A strike!
My pen races to the right
stops,
then jumps
as I reel in,
hook that sucker.
A flash of fin,
a dazzling leap,
a dash for freedom
into shadowy depths.

I can't let go now,
this will be a fast fight.
I'm at the end of the line
then it breaks.

The bobber flees,
my heart mourns.
My pen is still and desolate.

Lindsey Milton 1997

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