T. A. Cullen

We should meet at camp site 359.
Arriving a day ahead,
I prepare
I set up the tent and chill the wine
On a stinger in the river.

Collect firewood
And fish for dinner
I shiver to think you might not come
As my cold hands cast a line
In the broad glistening stream.

In the ripples of a day dream, I spy
Your shape twisting towards my spinner
That is alternately tugged and reeled closer.

More fish ignore then follow the teasing
But some come right on up into the shallow

Then shimmer in the sun and the water
Then stare at you like somebody’s daughter.