Fishing with Dad

When dad would wade into the shallow river,
With skill he’d gently cast his bamboo pole;
I’d watch the hand-tied fly just flit and quiver
Above the surface of the fishing hole–

Some days we’d leave before the crack of dawn
And row across a glassy mountain lake;
For hours, we would sit there in the sun
And wait in patience for the pole to shake–

But as I sat amid the river rock
Or in the rowboat baiting up a hook,
I wished that I was biking ’round the block
Or lying in the shade reading a book–

I realize now, after years of wishing,
It never really was about the fishing!