Hey that was a wonderful poem juan...juan have you heard of Patrick Lane, he lives here on the island.
A creek, brown water thick with spring run-off, and the trout
in the riffles come up out of the deep waters to feed. Cut-throat,
that red comma of blood, and the curl of thin water,
the elemental body, eating the eggs and larvae of insects
swept down from the banks high in the hills behind him.
When he was young he had read of a golden ring
found in the belly of a fish and standing there, so many years
later, remembering how he had thrown his wedding ring
into the same lake, he thought…what? That happiness eludes us
when we apprehend it, that the fallen world is the peculiar dialect
of the heart, that a ring flung out upon the waters will return
wearing the blood of angels in a choir of water? He
had fished there, long ago, with his young wife and
their first child. He had turned only once and saw her
pick up the baby and walk away into the willows,
her body and the body of his child
going away from him into the shade.
It is how the high waters talk to us in spring, how we cast out
with every hope imaginable, catching nothing, and casting again,
the line falling upon the waters and everything below the surface
sinking deeper, a silence waiting beyond the riffles of the creek
where it meets the lake, the good food come down from the hills.
Patrick Lane from Go Leaving Strange