Kagrenac Downey, Staff Writer

They say the good look for large scales unsung;

They hunt tragic, wax dolls to shape as wont;

Like old fishers search long for larger prey.

But all I found was a foggy mirror.

And saw there no war, bomb, no camps.

Will I report? Will I my catch appraised?

Will it, and I, fall short of the mark aimed?

I look up from my glass and up goes hope:

For my young pen flies me out of dead air.

“Maybe for now I am not a fisher,

But I do cast, reel, catch, gut and inspect.

Will you not spare my prize but one real glance?”