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.