Swimming the Quarry

I

I had heard as a child and never forgot

that the first people here had tickled for fish

slipping their hands, foxily rippling, in streams

and so tricked the trout right into their fists.

Scholarly, slow, I saw study as this tickling

in words for some true thing, alive

in all the clauses of textbook and banter.

II

That morning we swam the flooded quarry.

Pale ledges, ridiculously deep water

transparent and bright. The doctor and Greg

dove while we floated alongside our daughter.

Fish appeared and came on slowly as,

unseeing, she slapped the water. Grabbed at it

with small fists. Their progress was steady

and invisible. I turned to show her and was bit.

A tiny, implausible jolt. Disbelief, laughter.

The shining living thing found me

inconclusive. Removed itself to its mates.

III

We sat on the porch that warm night.

Sang to the little girl cautiously stalking

a toad that sporadically leapt, paused,

and sat on the path. We cheered on her hunting

and cheered when she had it, carefully cradled

in both hands. Tiny kicking efforts

to escape its gentle little cage.

She considered the options: prince or warts.

She had it then. Wild, real, caught.

In her life's short career

the finest thing she had done with her hands.