Rainbow Trout

He hangs amid glass towers and crystal ropes,

The water slipping past his sleekness

Then crashing, sunlit, like a burst geode

Beyond the studded brink.

His spotted tail and brilliant flanks are all

One muscle, and one undulation

Snaps him across the pool to where a twig

Pulsing down an uncased pipe of current

Shows a gray tip, a head.

Back home, he hovers, mouthing atmosphere,

His vehicle, his Earth, his bringer and giver

The green, chill, intricate, capricious

Harmony in which, by which,

As part of which he lives, to which

The quivers of his unity are tuned.

—Donald Mace Williams