The lake was calm and the blue sky
and slight breeze created a time
of perfection where everything fits
together and we fished missing strikes,
catching one or two, releasing them.
And we fished as if there was nothing
else to do. And there wasn’t, that grace
of being present slow and easy, deep and wide.
Later, we left not because we had to but there
were back roads to drive, deer and turkey to watch for.
Pulled into the driveway, sat on the porch, had a beer,
listened to the birds, talked in-between the silence of words.
“Think this could be paradise?” I asked.
“Could be, Dad,” he said and smiled.
-Byron Hoot
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