The Old Fisherman

The air was clean and fresh

still cool as the morning dew glistened on the tall grass

he moved slowly but confidently down the crooked path

in no hurry but wasting no time

enjoying each step as he inhaled his surroundings

a thousand times he had walked to the water’s edge

his pulse still quickened as he approached his true love

his gray white hair and wrinkled brow

belied the youthful love for the moment at hand

as the boat moved out from the bank

all his worldly concerns remained on land

crooked fingers, grown old through years of work

moved the small line through the eye of the hook

better than seemed humanly possible for his age

each turn and twist rehearsed a thousand times

now acted out with such enjoyment as to make one wonder

if he would ever stop tying the knots

now and again, pausing to comment on the shape of

a cloud or the changing of the season

he cast his line with a peculiar tenderness

it sparkled in the sunlight as it floated through the air

so lightly touching down it appeared the water felt

his presence and reached up to receive his caress

a sparkle in his eye and a small warm smile

announced the sensation his fingers detected in the rod

he loved the fish even before he caught him

just knowing he was there

when finally in the boat the old man and the fish

looked upon each other for an instant with mutual admiration

the old man smiled, removed the hook

cast again and sighed "oh what a beautiful day"

I think the fish recognized his knots.

Larry Newell, M.D.

Class of ‘78