This morning I released, without a doubt,
the same bright trout I gathered in my net
last autumn. He has the same red cheeks
and belly, only redder as he seeks a partner
for the springtime spawn. His spots are still
in the same places, growing denser
with the same pace as they spread along
his lateral line from dorsal to adipose to tail.

But the telltale sign is the wound he bears
upon his shoulders, left behind by an eagle
whose talons fumbled dinner. I almost
didn’t notice, so engrossed was I
with his vibrant colors. I startled to behold
the furrows he can’t see and won’t
forget, even as his flesh fends off
infection and hurriedly repairs.

Perhaps that’s why both times he was
not enticed by a dry fly floating along
the surface, where his cousins fed
heedlessly, but tricked by the same
heavy nymph sinking deep into the same
azure trough along the same red rock.
Whatever else remains, we know
we’re on the mend when we are hungry again.

You can hear a conversation about this poem on the Reformed Journal Podcast.

Photo by Sara Kurfeß on Unsplash