Fishing Trip
Kelly Terwilliger
My friend went fishing
and didn’t catch a fish.
Didn’t even catch
the photograph
of the bighorn sheep
leaping on the hillsides,
leaping into each other’s heads
as if to become
the best idea there. Stars
swirling and the sound of impact
rocketing down
to the river water
moving, thick, implacable,
cold, the hidden fish inside it,
their shiny eyes, their glitter sides
turning and turning,
moving like shuttles
down through the weft of water ropes.
My friend returned, empty-handed
but he wore the wide space home.
He knows the fish are there.
Now even I can hear them swimming.
