Get it right.

That's "ritual", assholes, not "routine".

This is a man-made pond, but it's grown out so naturally that the grass blends right back into the mounds of river rock and from there back into the golden folds of hills.

A big fish eye stares at me calmly as I trace my fingers along trout belly. He's removed the hook while I'm doing this. Without coaxing, the trout flips gracefully upright and glides back into the depths of the pond, a pleasant how-do-you-do, a handshake.

Hands on my hips, skin tawny under a noonday baking sun, a squint over the ripples left behind.

"I swear to god, that fish wanted you to pet him," he tells me in the quiet awe that follows.

This sinks in for a moment, as gently as dew to earth, and then to the business of laying the line out again.

Emotional Weather

heavy combed air

and all I am is
cat-stretched lidded-eyed
slab under cloud-sweat slather