by Frank Soos
In a land where every spring
Makes this river new,
Few things grow old.
The blue fish, its body, once a
Narrow gray torpedo, transformed—
indigo, calico, the many
Ways blue is blue—changed by
Time alone, its turquoise splashed
Dorsal tag, its pectoral fins, shot through
With rays of black and orange.
We’d like to think it got that way
Through its fishy wisdom, but, really,
It got that way just by living.
The first fish I ever caught
Here was a blue fish. I held it in my hand,
Wonder-struck, then let it go—I didn’t
I come here often. I come back,
Hoping to catch another.