The lake was smooth, and calm, and clear, 

The water seemed to call

To any creature lending ear,

That morning in the fall.

There was one blemish on the lake,

A silhouette in black,

and as the dawn began to break

He reached into his pack

Withdrew a pole, so long and thin

It seemed not to be there,

He flicked his wrist, and through the mist, 

A lure flew through the air.

A sudden splashing broke the calm,

The figure's form went taut,

As did his pole, his line, his reel,

To fight the fish he'd caught.