The clouds were high,
The sun was bright,
Our boat bit into
White capped seas,
In the distance,
Barely seen,
A hint,
A smudge,
Our place to be,
Our goal,
To troll
Beneath the cliffs,
The sandy perch,
Of Southeast Light,
To troll for blues,
Or maybe bass,
A good days work,
Of playing hard.
But meanwhile,
There's the wind
And seas,
Right in our teeth,
An hour or more.
As Point Jude fades
Astern of us,
We dream of fish,
And keep her straight,
And hope our reels
Will sing a song.
