The meaning of life

In a quiet cove I sit, on pulpy stump.
Bulrushes surround: corndogs on waving sticks.
The merciless keen of cicadas.
The breeze is blue.
In chest waders with broad shoulder straps,
I am godawful hot.
My rod lays on flattened reeds
while i munch a sandwich of lettuce, tomato, bright orange cheese.
A darting flutter surprises me, hovering for a taste.
The Dragonfly-
black copter fuselage, biplane wings of foil irridescent.
Noiseless, it flirts for a moment longer,
then pulls my glance to the swirling eddies.
What it seeks there, who is to know.
One of the water walkers?
But, no. There is a stalker.
In shiny convulse from bubbling stream,
he meets his fate
in the grab of the trout.

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