Swilling from his cup of brew, he sat upon the river’s bank
And forthwith threw his baited hook into the listless current.

The tiny fire he’d built for cheer more than warmth
exuded it’s intended bits of pleasure in the crackle of burning wood,
and in flames of yellow-orange hue.

The odor of smoke was an old friend, a delight to fishermen everywhere,
and the occasional burning of eyes or tickled nostrils only added to
the moment… one of life’s genuine pleasures.

His fishing rod, weathered through many seasons of use was propped
in the fork of a willow Branch, freshly cut for the occasion,
and planted in the soft ground.

A fat trout jumped, barely clearing the water’s surface, nabbing a winged insect
then disappearing, leaving only concentric rings upon the water
to mark its airborne debut.

The fisherman smiled, at peace with himself; in harmony with the universe… wondering that man must become old before appreciating the small things… life’s true pleasures.
…

Hours later, newly arrived fishermen approached the old gentleman’s
fishing spot, where he leaned in repose against the backrest of a small tree stump, his fire burned out and his eyes closed.

His line was jerking wildly… a nice fish had taken the bait but the old fisherman was unaware.

As the new arrivals stood over the reclining fellow his passing became apparent.
The man, in death, was the quintessence of a life fully lived… truly appreciated.
Those standing there marveled at the smile affixed upon the old man’s face.

One of the fishermen picked up the old gentleman’s fishing pole and began retrieving his catch. “It’s a nice one, Pop”, the man said, “sure wish you could see it.”