If you've been to the sun-ripe side of the river, then you've seen Mr. Jordan.
With his velvet locks and Grey roots, his awkward sway as he steps.
He'll be carrying a fisher's pole horizontal across his broad shoulders.
For so long the shape of the pole has rested there,
Now indenting itself into his deadened posture.
A half empty bucket at his side, he waits and watches
For the twinkle of fin to catch his eye.
The bait is fidgety now and ready to be called to its fate.
The sun now starting to wrinkle his skin for it is thrice the hour.
Sweat pouring down his brow, he never moves until the precise moment
Of switch and engage -
No pressure of anticipation will break his concentration.
His muscles twitch.
Ready to make his move.
Then with a sudden leap it flies out of the wave
And back under again right as he casts out the line.
White knuckles grabbing the handle,
Ready to fight for his pride.
It will be his first catch if he makes this right;
He'll have a prize to take home for once in his river-side life.
If you stay long enough, you'll see him struggle with the line
As if his life were attached on the other side.
But he won't last long.
His tiredness overwhelms his aged body
And soon he is forced to give up.
It's an experience to watch Mr. Jordan.
For if you've seen him once,
You know he'll be back again tomorrow.
