Hooked
A trout sometimes leaps up right out of the water
to take your fly, then dives for rock, log, weeds, ledge, anything shading sun
in its clear water world, slicing your line in wild
Geometry, hurling its body into air
Against your arcing rod. Sometimes-face it-you end life by taking it in hand and cracking its head
so you can taste its gold,
But most of the time you hold its silver
and release your death from its jaw, full of awe as it lies stunned on silt slipping back into its skin, vanishes.
It's then you wonder why you're a creature who eats life but also plays it in hand. O Lord, help me to feel the hook that plays me. But so many times,
So many times, lets me go.
Orval Lund
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