The school bus could not get us home
fast enough, fast enough to drop
our books, change clothes, mount
bicycles and pedal away holding
fiberglass rods with Zebco 33 reels,
red stringers and a black metal tackle box.

We pedaled like blind angels flying
down and around the long curve
of Highway 7 until we landed
in our adopted home waters –
Ryder’s Pond – a deep Arkansas
farm pond, a watering hole
for registered Polled Herefords.

On the run, we dropped our bikes,
high-stepped through snaky Fescue
until we reached water’s edge
then strung purple worms on hooks
and cast into the shadows.

Two hours later, (late for supper),
pedaling back up the long curvy hill
green bass dangling on red stringers,
knowing men in white or tan pickups
would honk, children would gawk
from car windows zipping past.

We would nod holding handle bars
tight, grinning – our delirious dog
racing us. Proud as preening ducks,
we pedaled hard. Like young braves
returning from vision quests – we
had proven their worth.