Connor Olejnik
The wind has gone, and the lake is glass.
The bugs come dawn and fish start to splash.
Casts land, eyes peel. Patience lost on an
endless reel. A young boy sits in thought.
He thinks of what he has never caught.
His bobber drops and the daydream stops.
Out of the water, a large mouth flops.
“Don’t let it snap but keep the line taut.
A battle done right, is one well fought.”
The hook is out, and the fish is lipped.
No sights pictured; his small hands are stripped.
Too often fate and never his wish.
That’s why he’s called the boy who cried fish.