At the midpoint

Of a high meandering brook

Flicks the tail of a brook trout.

 

The lithe tail curves

In the still cool shade of the shelter of the bank

Upon which stands a man with a long slender pole.

 

The melancholy man sends

His line back and forth, high through the sun,

And catches the eye of the brook trout

 

The brook trout’s eye is held and taut,

And when next the line lands,

Its deceitful prize is plundered and submerged.

 

The plunder is ephemeral

And the brook trout rises, flashing, to the hand

Of the melancholy man.

 

The man grasps

A panicked fighting body

And sees it in the glory of the sun.

 

The glory embellishes

A flexing fin, a writhing tail, a gleaming eye,

And stirs a melancholy heart.

 

The life of a brook trout is thudded away

In a singular blow to an unforgiving stone

Resting beside noisy waters.

 

A brook trout rests beside noisy waters,

Metal strung through its gills

Made slowly deader by the beating sun.

 

Dead comrades join the book trout

As the sun moves across the sky

And hits the tall grass whose shadows hit the brook trout.

 

A melancholy man picks up his dinner

And starts home, fish bouncing on his back

Wriggling as if there was life yet.

 

A fire finds life

And the flesh of a brook trout finds fire

And the plates are set.

 

A meal of trout is had

At a table set for two

By none but a melancholy man.