Fishing

I was still on the ice at West Branch with these images captured when some words began crowding into my head, a poem began its inevitable writing. The pictures need no other comment than the poem:
















ICE FISHING
Stopping by the local forest preserve to collect winterscapes,
Stepping out onto the ice, carefully walking a good thirty feet,
I began snapping images of three parka-wearing fishermen
Gathered around a portable but sizable fishing shanty
Beyond the midpoint of Deep Quarry Lake this afternoon.
Changing the sun angle, I grabbed shots of the little camp
Including some twisty winding paths leading to the location.
Turning, I trudged back to where the shore will be in spring,
Wondering about men who would enjoy the frozen sport,
Trying to catch sluggish fish hiding two feet under an ice roof.
I thought about an old fisherman joke, one suggesting that a
Fisherman must be a jerk at one end of a line waiting for a
Jerk at the other end. Soon I began to wonder, too,
What jokes the fishermen surely must have about a man who
Walks out gingerly just thirty feet, snaps his photos, and hurries
Back to his car, not grabbing a pole and a beer, not sitting down.
No idea what the punchline is, but I am pretty confident it has
Something in there about a jerk, too.