Poem: No Fishing Allowed | Poetry | Hudson Valley | Chronogram Magazine
No Se Perite La Pesca
On the Rondout Creek, we watch a heron tiptoe across a tight rope from dock to boat.
We cheer him on to rev the engine, speed out on the water, wave his legs
to a gaggle of geese.
Boys equipped with worms and rods, ignore the signs, throw out lines, catch bass,
drop them in pails of water.
Safe in our car, we see golden leaves on the old oaks sway, blocking dark clouds,
but not the light show in the sky.
From the parking lot we hear, Vamanos, Vamanos!
The boys scatter back to dads’ dented pickups for the drive home to barbecue fish
and drink sweet tea.

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