Poem #6: Watching Trout in the Grass
I don’t recall the month,
though it was winter I’m sure of that.
A dusting of snow on the stubbled, browning fields,
but the air didn’t smell like winter yet.
Maybe it was only late fall.
So, to be out fishing for trout
was not unreasonable, not yet (that would come later).
But we were alone when we stepped out of the truck,
and we were alone when we rigged up our fly rods,
and alone as we stood and looked at the stream,
which had grown fat overnight and had outgrown its banks.
I don’t remember if I caught a fish that day
but I do remember the trout as they
crept carefully out among the leaves of grass,
to mingle with the terrestrial life, rooting and searching
in the flooded lawn.