fishing rod in hand
it might not be far
but it's out of his mother's calling range
forbidden just last summer
his boots squeak-clunk down the trail
through still evergreens to the silent lake
he attaches a worm and casts
no people talking
no tv
no brothers
just the lake
later
on the picnic table in front of the house
he measures his one catch
it passes the halfway of the ruler
will be shorter after he cuts and guts
fish don't look so alive until you stare at their eyes
inside his chest, he is proud
mother watches out the window
nervous about the steak-knife
she bends to a lower cupboard and then brandishes a frying pan
happy to see her boy
enjoying something
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