MAKING
CALIBER
The fine-faddled fish are swimming away.
I look down into their strange world of water
from above - a simple, human height looking
down into the small river below. These curious
slips of being stand still for a moment, seem to
wiggle and peer, and then dart off, disturbed
perhaps by my shadow and noise. Who knows,
and I don't. In fact, as I think it through, they really
go nowhere, in that sense of leaving. They swim
the same streaming, moving athwart whether this
way or that. They are, in turn, as limited as me in
leaving the Earth or sourcing some new form of air.
We're all captives, it would seem, of some element
or another - wind, water, vessel or wish.
They can't stand, and I can't
fish
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