fishing, cucumbers, brevity

Tranquility sensed by the watcher and experienced by the fisherman.

Among the  rampant leaves of the pumpkin squashes two prickly cucumbers hang from a plant clinging to  the fence. I had almost forgotten the row of ridge cucumbers which, not realizing the space-hungry nature of this particular squash I had planted between them and the fence. I take a slice from the smaller of the two cucumbers. It is cool and juicy and tastes of the country green.

Having read a few haiku just now, I think to myself:  
   Short poems are best
   For what is hardest to write
   Is too good for words.