The Mere Mention of Fishing

The Mere Mention of Fishing
    by Dan Behrens

Ten years old.
Early summer.
Mom’s up, eager
To get us to the garden,
To snap peas, rows of corn
Not nearly wide enough
For dreams to expand.
Cumulus stack
Just north of us
As I pine on and on
About a fishing trip
Dad mentioned. Diablo Lake.
Magpies on mesh wire
Peck at Mom’s nerves,
Cawing for spilt peas
Or an early strawberry.
A single bull thistle
Rises among the radishes.
Our first year for radishes.
My older sister sets
A sprinkler.
The soft dark earth
Squeezes up through my toes.
I am on to beans now,
Chattering on and on
If only to the sun overhead,
Exhausting her patience,
Keeping her off
The evening mountains
Till I make it over to Rhubarb
And the fish-teemed shallows of Diablo.