by Douglas Lanzo
Copyright 2020

First published in Literary Yard on April 3, 2021

Armed with bass fishing lures
guaranteed to work or
be re-shipped from China
and visions of largemouth bass
swimming in our heads,
my 11-year old identical twin sons
and I headed for Little Seneca Lake.

We were brimming with confidence
that we would land the big one:
the Lock Ness Monster-sized bass
with perhaps a pickerel to boot,
rivaling the size of the mighty
Arkansas River catfish
we had watched Jeremy Wade noodle
bare-handed on River Monsters.

Hours later, we emerged with a small arsenal
of bucketed fish that we released back into the Lake
and memories of other sundry captures
enhanced by a fish tale of the giant bass that,
fortunate for itself, had managed to bite
its way through Gregory’s fishing line to freedom,
thus narrowing escaping
an otherwise certain pan-fried death.

This mighty arsenal consisted
of a tiny Green Perch
hand-caught by my other son, Alex,
while hiding safely, or so it thought,
beneath a late summer leaf,
a three inch iridescent Green Sunfish and
four-inch black speckled Crappie,
each caught with a fishing net
hovering beneath a chicken-baited line.

Not to be outdone, my personal exploits
notching my hunting and fishing belt that day
consisted of a hand-caught and released
Yellow Swallowtail that, much to its chagrin,
had been caught entranced in a mating dance
with its would-be lover along a creek
and a near-sighted Morning Glory
net-caught along the lakeshore
while refueling for its fluttering travels.

Haiku highlights of the day included:

approaching within forty feet
of a preening Belted Kingfisher
restoring its royal feathers
and blue crown to regal glory,
truly the crowning achievement of the day;

witnessing a Great Blue Heron
displaced by a paddle boat
squawking and croaking in protest as
it flew to the opposite lakeshore;

observing pairs of swallows
playfully criss-cross,
weaving paths hot in pursuit
of doomed and frenzied mosquitoes
along the sun-drenched lake;

inspecting a beaver-hewed birch tree stump
partially chewed through and surrounded by
myriad pieces of wood clippings
marked with souvenirs of beaver teeth
fit for ornamental display;

last but not least,
beholding a bright green grasshopper
steadily plodding along the pebbles
of a rocky embankment near the dock house,
only to realize that it was being propelled forward,
not by its own energies, but by a tiny ant hoisting
its lifeless body along an arduous path
all the way to a mound of dirt
housing its awaiting colony.

And so, we left that Lake,
likely teeming with giant bass
that had lived to roam free and wild another day,
but bearing a most valuable realization.
This true haiku moment was our appreciation
that  Mother Nature has a remarkable sense of humor which,
if properly appreciated and nourished with humility,
brings wonder and enchantment, transforming
ordinary moments into extraordinary experiences.