by Noah Davis
What else is yearning but the orange
underside of a trout, gills heaving, a white fly
stuck in its jaw? As I hold it in my hands
fingers slide over the worm markings
on its green back, the words of some god
flowing along its sides and through
this hollow. I suppose serenity dwells
at the bottom of a translucent pool,
but such thoughts fall away,
as the color fades from the
sides of this small fish.
I bend to the water,
trusting in what I cannot see
as it falls back into the wash
and is swept under the mountain.