Fishing with Grandpa

Find the old deer path and follow it.
Grandpa and me in our usual parade.
Two fishing poles slung over our shoulders
pointing up to the sky
like so many long two-pointed ladders
that remain after "Apple Picking."
The catch of the day,
still swimming free in the cold water of the lake
unknowingly gulps another water grub.
I greedily grab the dew worms
twisting and twirling their soft bodies
between my stubby fingers
before jabbing them onto the hook.
Grandpa showed me how it was done.
Then we put the worms into the cold water.
Fish swim by left and right, none take the bait.
Perhaps they know what is in store.
Maybe in the water the fish are telling one another
to avoid the dew worms
lest you be pulled silently screaming into a dry world
of blinding light.
Seems so strange that a fish's death could be so similar
to the start of a life.
I never catch any fish,
but grandpa never fails.
Soon after the worm's debut into the lake
a big wriggling cat-fish flops out onto the bank.
The catch of the day
and the end of a successful fishing trip.
Just my grandpa and his little fishergirl.