Your low buzz
sends shivers, scares,
as you whizz past rowboat
to tickle my ears.

Then I remember,
you don't sting, as wings whirr
like tiny outboards
on this quiet lake.

I see rainbows and pots of gold
everywhere you dart, hover,
then again in your enormous eyes,
that look 'round in a hundred ways.

You're the friendly water skier
who churns past, waves madly,
but unlike him or her,
you don't scare the fish.

But you ski on your tail
along water's smooth sheet
like a wet paintbrush;
as fish jump and try to catch you mid-air.

I lower my hook
in those special spots,
hoping, teasing, jiggling the line,
imagining rainbows,

Until the fish
think
I might
be you.