The trout are waiting as they always have
finning the pebbled bottom of the stream
to eat nymphs and occasionally break
the foamy surface to sample
the latest floating specimen
Every spring they wait for the water to warm
as I wait for the air to warm; I am not
the young boy who happily trudged miles
down the pre-dawn road into the brush
and over and beyond boulders to hunt.
The trout were still new and magical
in coats of pink or mottled brown,
disappearing into the variegated
stones below. I loved their fight and
inspected their guts on opening them up.
My body now wearies of such stimulation.
With others, I am less sure than the boy
after his fish, but feel no less compelled
to carefully see them up close and
maybe watch as we both open up.
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