Standing in a boat, a feeling floated 

On Lake Cumberland,
escaping Corvid-19,
I cast live bait
toward the rock bank.

Old Seventy Creek
in its flow
falls in mist
against my face.

I stand in the
wooden boat
my father and I
built in a shed

off the milk parlor.
I cast live bait
into the foam topped
roll churning.

In morning light,
laps of water
against the wooden hull,
captures a rhythm that

pushes the boat back.
Words escape my mind.
I want to write poetry for you,
fishing is no longer a priority.

The sun rises, a feeling floated up
to the surface, reminding me
of how lonely I am
without you in our dry bed.