At evening
on the river's verge
three times I catch
the silver flash;
watch, but cannot hear
the splash of leaping fish
descend, submerge.
Is it an ecstatic wish
to touch the element
of air, or is the fish,
pursued by predators,
transposed by bolts of fear?
Will gleaming traces
reappear, as scale
and fin aspire to flight?
While fishermen
prepare their bait,
the new moon waits
on tenterhooks
...