Jungle in the Water

The stirring breeze dances lightly,
Winding through and through,
Climbing up and around my head,
Playing with my thin ribbons of hair.

The calming thrum of crickets rises on the lake,
The rippling surface hiding the creatures within.
My grandfather's fishing pole swings back and forth,
As I breathe out in little puffs of white.

"Quietly, Quietly", he whispers to me,
Silently, silently I follow his lead.
Gently he lifts me into the old red row boat.
I sit expectantly in my large yellow boots.

He pushes me out into the dark wet unknown,
But to him its a friend, familiar and understanding.
My little hands grip tightly the broad worn out oar,
And my grandpa whistles softly to the red rising sun.

Skimming the surface I lean over the side,
Below I picture a jungle submerged in the water,
With flowers and roots and leaves intertwining,
And lazy wide-eyed fish weaving in and out.

I know this because Grandpa tells me his secrets,
He tells me of the world where the fish like to live,
In the depths, in the cold, with bright scales and quick tails,
They flash like bright rainbows and forge slimy paths.

He gathers his gear and attaches a worm.
In my thoughts I see the fish circling beneath,
Licking their lips and preparing to eat,
As he tosses the bait into the dark smooth glass surface.

He lets me reel in the line and points out some ripples,
Telling me that that is where the fish dance together,
And the bubbles mean that their singing under the surface.
He winks at me wisely and I reel even faster.

Tug, tug goes the line and my hands grip even tighter,
I gasp as I picture the fish with the hook.
With the hard metal hook lodged deep in his throat,
And his fins beating wildly in his murky strange world.

He pulls and he pulls and he just wont give up,
But I'm determined to win against this small scaly trout,
So I reel and I reel, till I see his body fighting,
And with one giant pull he flies out of the water.

He drops at my feet and he dances for me,
Like his brothers and sisters alone in the water,
He flaps back and forth, waving his fins,
I smile at my grandfather as he watches me.

But my grandfather smiles and takes the fish in his hands.
He removes the dark hook and puts the fish in the water.
I gasp softly and stare at the disappearing fish,
As it vanishes suddenly in the fog of the morning.

He's special says my grandpa, placing a worm on his hook.
He's smaller says my grandpa, as he throws the line out,
One day when hes older than maybe we can catch him,
Or maybe he will learn from the scars that we gave him.