Canticle for Native Brook Trout

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

between hemlock and sweating

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

their jaws part, predatory

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,

to marvel at the skin

along their spines: the tan

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.