Elevenmile
Birds above, in salmon pool
are as foreign agents; better odds catching this fowl
than Elevenmile brook trout.
How my father miscalculated fish.
Pole and reel all day, a tree on the bank.
Birds sick of soil raise. Fish fed up with air dive.
They'd leave us in the middle, cold, tired.
Our mountain excursion through empty space,
swilling the air until I dangled from the world's roof,
was everywhere river fish were stretched,
up tall like ants on gallows,
freezing in flight,
to lowest ends like an inevitable moan of pain.
Fish and birds. Fathers and sons.
With every new reap melts away yet more flourish,
army against army,
as the evening Sun shimmers to the ridge.
--Ray Succre
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