The River

It’s here on the riverbank in the tall grass that sways in the wind,

And it’s friends who have been trampled by fishermen,

Rushing for a good spot to plant themselves for an hour or two.

 

The angler sits on this most precious of spots,

Calmly deciding what will attract the fish,

While soaking the summer sun on a most welcome face.

 

He sits, quietly, as the first line is cast,

Drifting down the river,

unphased by all around.

 

Anxious for the combination of tranquility and meaning,

Only provided by the movement of the river,

And the sound of water rushing over stones.

 

Life is good. Very good.

 

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