Most fishers are up for a chat,
Despite the lonely solitude tugging fishers to fish.
"Not so far, just a nibble or two"
There is always a theory, an excuse, as mere mortals, the fishers, try think like a fish.
Too windy - But fish never feel the breeze, except for scant jumps, flips or flights into air.
Better at High Tide - But fish know nothing of tides, only depth, ebbs and flows, surges, bubbles and foam.
Too sunny - But there's no real weather in the depths, just light and dark, night and day, dawn and dusk.
Too wet and rainy - But fish have never felt raindrops on their scales. Every day brings a torrent and flood.
Wrong bait - But fish are opportunists. Who really knows their secret food passions and quirks.
Too wary, too cunning - But do fish know the fisher's thoughts, tricks, lures and secret evil intentions?
The reality is that ignorance is bliss, fishers know they cannot think like a fish.
Fish cannot smile, laugh, cry, feel or express pain, because their faces are frozen, blank without expression.
This excuses the fisher from the guilt of catching and killing fish.
Fish don't know that they know.
They feel, but are not conscious, nor thoughtful, nor mindful, nor savvy.
If you catch 'em, you only have to unhook 'em, kill 'em, clean 'em, cook 'em, eat 'em.
The real reward of fishing is being there! Little else! The catch is a bonus!
The game of hunting, the solitude, being out there, are more important than the catch.
So knowing what fish think is really irrelevant.
Slack lines the fisher's secret passion, though they seldom admit it.
Another cast, another taste of solitude's escape, catching dreams and playing thoughts on a line for a while.
Background: I live beach side and daily stroll along the beach taking my rod and reel for a stroll. By chance I occasional meet fishers who are mostly reluctant for a chat, but can be lured into brief conversations and chats while they check their lines for a bite. This poem captures my reflections on the fishers I have met, and how they approach their fishing.