By Nicole Yurcaba
Out here in the country,
in the backwoods,
in the boondocks,
in the sticks,
on Friday night
we do things a little differently:
ten-past-eight,
we pull on holed-in-the-knee Wranglers,
cracked-at-the-sole Georgia boots,
and grab our favorite Firebird fishin' pole,
and two Coleman lanterns
to hang from a bowin' tree limb;
we hunker down beside
an over-our-heads cattail cluster
at the pond's northern corner
and we single-hook
our nightcrawler dreams
to eight-pound test line
that's cast into murky oblivion;
we hum along to the bullfrog's song,
wishing upon fiery lightnin' bugs,
conversin' with the barn owl
invisibly interrogatin' us.
Out here in the country,
in the backwoods,
in the boondocks,
in the sticks
on Friday night
we get our thrills differently:
when the orange-and-yellow bobber
drowns, we bend from our cross-legged sittin'
for our bowin'-to-the-water rods,
and flick-of-the-wrist set the hook,
slow-crankin', reel-fightin'
the freshwater beast
bendin' our favorite pole
nearly to breakin';
our cracked-at-the-sole Georgia boots
trapeze-line balancin'--muddied and leakin'--
the ankle-high rush-infested shoreline;
scamperin' beneath a lazy, yellow quarter moon,
gleefully cryin' "Don't snap the line!"
"Just let it fight a little!" and "Reel in the slack!"
we pull the whale-of-a-catfish to shore,
where for a few unadulterated moments
the world on which our West Virginia's mapped
stands lantern-lit still,
revolving around us ...
