Descriptive: a Day at the Dock
A day at the dock The memories of years long since passed came to me as the sun rose over the mountains and came across my empty house. I sat on the small wooden dock at the edge of the lake which happens to be in the middle of a grove of trees in a small valley with two giant mountains looming on both sides and a third off in the distance. An old rusty fishing pole lying next to me gently rising and falling as the waves flowed under the dock, as I stick another small slimy worm on the end of my best and most trusted hook, a hook that has seen almost as many fish as I have, a hook that my father used to use, a hook that never let go. The sun hit the water casting a warm caressing glow in colors of the rainbow and bringing the fish closer to the surface. Now I'm ready to catch some fish.
I cast my line, memories of the days my father and I woke up before the sun to race all the other fishermen, and the birds, out so that we could get to our spot. Even when all our tricks and luck failed we always fished at the same spot. Our spot had both of the two grand tactical advantages that we as fishermen usually look for; the cover of the hanging trees, with shade to keep us cool, and it was close enough to the shore so that we could still get the good fish. On the shore nearby we could hear the small blue birds chirp and the white fuzzy rabbits chasing each other. The many wildflowers that surrounded the lake, of which I know no names, made it even more colorful, Like a brilliant pinwheel spinning gently in the cool morning breeze the colors normally distracted me since I was young and the only thing that would bring my attention back was when my father decided it was time for a joke.
Jokes were how my father and I passed the time on slow days. Speaking of which, a cruel irony about this lake is that my father lived, fished, and died on this lake. Unlike the day of bright color now, back then we were here on a day of dark and cold, a day where winter surrounded us,
I cast my line, memories of the days my father and I woke up before the sun to race all the other fishermen, and the birds, out so that we could get to our spot. Even when all our tricks and luck failed we always fished at the same spot. Our spot had both of the two grand tactical advantages that we as fishermen usually look for; the cover of the hanging trees, with shade to keep us cool, and it was close enough to the shore so that we could still get the good fish. On the shore nearby we could hear the small blue birds chirp and the white fuzzy rabbits chasing each other. The many wildflowers that surrounded the lake, of which I know no names, made it even more colorful, Like a brilliant pinwheel spinning gently in the cool morning breeze the colors normally distracted me since I was young and the only thing that would bring my attention back was when my father decided it was time for a joke.
Jokes were how my father and I passed the time on slow days. Speaking of which, a cruel irony about this lake is that my father lived, fished, and died on this lake. Unlike the day of bright color now, back then we were here on a day of dark and cold, a day where winter surrounded us,