Many years ago,
I would sit in a small boat
and drop my hook
into the river, and wait
for the bass to strike.
Those were the days
when a large enough fish
would be served at dinner,
and smaller fish were thrown back
to heal in the water.
I no longer fish
but the river hardly
notices my absence.

Late in the night
I cast my hook
into the sky, hoping
to catch the wind’s voice,
and if its song is loud
to steal a few choice notes
to tuck away in my journal.
Most nights
there are only the tears
of stars and the song
of the sleeping hawk,
a lullaby to the moon.