SORT OF LIKE FISHING

On some of my morning walks
I see most everything I pass by:
the flowers and grasses and leaves,
sticks in the road, dead trees,
a rabbit, a squirrel, a worm on the road,
birds, the clouds, the houses I pass by.

Sometimes my mind is elsewhere
and I see and hear just enough to navigate.
My mind may be focused on my agenda for the day
or it may be whirling with nothing in particular.

On occasion I come home with a poem
gleaned from what I observe
or from my mental meandering.
It doesn’t matter if I don’t get one —
it’s sort of like fishing.

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