We’d go fishing in the Flint Hills,
A rock-ribbed land of grass
Where streams ran clear
And Dad would spend all day
Stalking wily bass;
But I chose a different game.
Each crystal pool embraced
A sun perch family, half-tame,
Pretty things and brave
As, blinded by the light,
They couldn’t see me
Looming in the air above.
I’d lure them out of safety
With a rubber worm,
Tease them with a wiggly dance
Of food they couldn’t eat –
The worm as large as they;
I’d only rarely use a hook.
I much preferred to play,
Fool them to believing
In bounty from the sky;
And sometimes, just to prove
I could, I’d pull one out
To gasp upon the bank.
Only after growing older
Did I learn to question
The theology implied.
©2006 John I. Blair
