Fog clings to the yellowed pond
like breath on glass; we wear winter
coats to ward off April’s chill.

I help my son bait his hook,
swallow a soft, pink pang of guilt
over the worm’s pierced body.  

Now I teach him how to cast
his line, settle into stillness,
keep his eyes on the muddied water.

It’s a practice of faith, this waiting
for sacred movement – a tug
on a string, some iridescent glimmer.