Spring Trolling

With frozen hands,

tossed around on Cayuga's cruelest April waters,

I wallow in prehistoric pike snot, smelling of my youth.

Whenever I twist longnose pliers to treble hook shank, my grandfather is near,

although I never called him "grandfather".

Cagey meanwhile soldiers on, defending our shores and loved ones

from the German immigrants, more democratic than the natives,

as they bring the depths of the lake up, up, up

into the towns, forests and fields

during the uncertain verb seasons.