The scent of hoping for a perch to bite,
a plan in motion, unpaid debts.

Casting his line into the river sermon,
its voice rising like a clarinet, while his arms

in the dim light of just-before-dawn
remain a heavy burden.

He can’t shake the constant reminder,
the screech of a sacrifice he’d made

under the road where a figure stood, a prayer
in his heart as he steadied his hand.

Her lean fingers once expertly weaved the air,
now an insect buzzes past his ear –

the sudden movement, a wish on his lips,
she of his mistakes pressing down on a past

filled with broken motion and footsteps
silent on the wet ground. Wild licorice fennel

spiced the air as they sat by the years
shouldering past to the reservoir where

they burned the midnight oil determined for
largemouth bass, its wet scales gleaming

under the cover of darkness they made within
a ravine draped in green foliage echoing redemption.

The nocturn played softly in the church,
the preacher delivered his guitar. Leaving him

along the winding highway alone as he prepares
to earn enough to repay her debts by moonlight.

Posted for day 13 of of NaPoWriMo / GloPoWriMo.