The trout hangs still as string, nosing into
The flow. The stream’s surface a vast
membrane carrying watershed jetsam,
slough of pines, hapless fallen bodies.
Movement of trout is an old discernment—
Trip or damselfly, tied fly or mayfly?
Food or flotsam, rise or rest?—
Recognition from an old brain
spurs thrust of fin, flip of tail.
A succession of eyes down through time,
sees ever more perfectly. Deeper
seeing, fuller being. To see is to live.
A person walks in the flow of the landscape,
stops. Around her, the lives of trees are told
in the angle and curve of the branch.
The land undulates with stories.
She sees for the first time what is written there,
And rising to the membrane of memory,
Is nourished from within time:
flip of tail, her wave or recognition;
Thrust of fin her power of intent.