At the Fish Hatchery

I don't believe in trout,
only water—
green, speckled like
the sky is
speckled with leaves.
Throw a pellet
and water leaps and
gasps to vanish it.
Light and thrash
tesselate, fit rough
to smooth edge
until there is only this
eager wait.
Stillness is itself an
empty mouth.
I walk from the mud-
Mossed channel bank;
the forecast is for rain
and I would not
withstand that hunger
opening all its pores.

Copyright © 2006 Claire Whitenack All rights reserved
from Alligator Juniper
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission