The Songless Night of the Trout

So we’re water. We rise for caddis and rest

in slow gravelly beds, beneath undercut banks,

ready to bellow forth upon unsuspecting mice.

At times in spawn or solitude, breaking the silence

of the night in a body slap that sends

the surface of stars into a slowly settling chaos.

One day, belly up, bits and pieces fleshed away

by current and crawdads and a general falling apart.

One day, all we guard will be surrendered.

Understand, luck is a fisherman’s word, so often

brings us gasping and flopping through the mud

and grass, grasped for a photo, unhooked from reality.

What is a life of dirt and searing wind, listen,

sometimes we’ll answer, but we have no use for longing.

We have no longing for worlds outside our own.