Picking footsteps
over gravel run
along the low
clear pools
after the rain
which
actually
has
not yet fallen
the screen of trees
separating
the descending stream
from the edifices
of work
having
left
the light children
happy
and intrusive
on the sand
of the riparian flats
he is noting
that the rain
will have washed
the fingerlings
into the permanent stream
and wondering
as he often does
why so few bother to save
themselves
from the drying
Soon
he encounters meanders
under the drizzle
of
aphid honeydew
and sagging gossamer
and pocket arms
of cutoff oxbows—
still backwater
of the larger creek
And here observes
the larger fish
in shoals
over the shifting
brown silt
Seeing one that is longer
and thinner
perhaps a pike
he reaches in
and catches it in his fist
surprised
at how easily
wondering
if it would be
good
and safe to eat
then shocked
to see
that its tail
has already been bitten off
He lets it go
It reminds him now
of a white goldfish he had
as a child
and how
he found it sick one day
floating
listless on its side
soon to die
No comments:
Post a Comment