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Todd Davis
Now we are all sitting here strangely
On top of the sunlight.
—JAMES WRIGHT
Fishing the narrow stream
of light, we follow a seam
rhododendron, tulip poplar
and white oak that grow
more than a hundred feet tall.
The small fish that have been here
for thousands of years
lay in on flat rock that lines
the streambed, or hide beneath
the shelves where water
pours over fallen trees.
They are nearly invisible,
backs colored like the stone
in the pool where they were born
and where they will die
after giving birth to their own.
The drift of our flies
tempts them, and through
the glass surface we see
surge ending with a struggle
to be freed from the end
of our lines. Their lives
depend upon the coldness
of water, upon our desire
to touch their bodies,
worm-shaped ovals,
the smallest red circles,
the splash of yellow
and orange that washes
around their bellies
as we release them
and they swim
from our grasp
back into a sliver
of sunlight.
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