The night before our fishing trip,
The one my Grandpa planned,
I dreamed about the catch we’d get
To fry up in our pan.
At crack of dawn before the sun
Came peering through the shade,
I heard my Grandpa’s cheerful cry,
“Don’t make those fishes wait!”
The Chevy truck found every bump
Along the old lake road,
And once or twice I looked behind
To check upon the boat.
My Grandpa rowed out to the weeds
Where bugs and dragonflies
Danced and droned in lazy flight
Before our very eyes.
We baited hooks and cast our lines,
Then settled in to wait,
For patience is the fisher’s friend,
A necessary trait.
The hours passed by without a bite,
But Grandpa wasn’t fretting.
He knew that sometimes fish aren’t caught
Until the sun is setting.
I got quite bored just sitting there
And failed to understand
Why Grandpa, with his wisdom,
Did not row back to land.
When the setting sun dipped low
To kiss the distant shore,
To my surprise, my line snapped taut,
What I had waited for.
With my one fish to bring back home,
My Grandpa was content.
He taught me much upon that day,
And that was time well-spent.
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