Ribar

Motionless he's sitting,shaped like a bush, bent low;along the quiet bankthe anglers melt from view.Or where the waters flow,he fishes, taut as a bow,and the waves are rockingboth him and his canoe.

The wind is gently playingwith the little waves;somewhere a cricket's chirping,hid where the grasses swish;and while the mist ascends,the poplar sways and bends;and every angler, meanwhile,dreams of a great big fish.

When the float starts twitching,he's crouched, poised for the bite;every care he hadhe's tossed into the drink,nor does he care a mitewhen he'll get home tonight.He watches the white storkcatch frogs along the brink.

When he's back, at last,soaking wet, no fish,at great length, and grandly,he spins tales to the skies:"Alas, oh bitter woe,one got away! Oh no!Five kilos, it weighed in!"he cries with shining eyes.