The sun fingers and prickles me;
The dock creaks gray,
Floating on algaed styrofoam.
A silvery leap spatters
This drowsy morning,
Now tail-thrashed alert.
The trout flee weedbeds,
And sunken-log mysteries
For spring-fed depths.
My toes curve over the edge
Of wave-slapped wood,
And I dive,
In an arc,
Into their current,
Plunging below
Tepid-safe waters,
Desiring mute cool green
Until it presses
Hard on my breast,
And I push upward,
Bursting into white air,
Raining diamonds.
Credit: Leaping Trout by Winslow Homer, Warren Collection—William Wilkins Warren Fund, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston
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