Fishing under a bright moon,
do these creatures know what’s happening?

I think about their feelings,
how they must feel when we throw our lines out.

If they even think about it,
is it intrigue, or more along the lines of panic?

The trees above form a canopy,
bugs and birds chirp in a cacophony of voices.

Individualism lost,
they bounce their chorus off the lake.

Everything in between feels it,
from the muggy, humid air to my thin breastbone.

Maybe I’ll spare the fish,
just for tonight I’ll go home hungry.