In the Morning

A crow on a drooping hemlock bough scolds me for the trespass

At an hour he expected to have for himself

It is still

Not yet light

As I crease the hovering mist

Pushing my prow quietly forward

Toward a place where there is hope

Confident in my direction

I drift and stow my paddle with a clunk

Amplified by the need for silence

And raising my rod overhead

I thrust back and forward

Casting out upon the water

My offering is a deceit  

Floating in the place where

Air meets water

And I wait

For faith’s reward

The apostles were fishermen who wrote that

Christ Himself sought the face of God

In the morning