Though blasting through the night
masculine horns, obnoxious
as bull frogs,
these boys congregate
in the morning
kneel as in prayer
at the Russian olive tree
and prepare
as all prepare
to be fishermen.
The
spontaneous blurts
in the river
crystalline lips
catch their drowsy
meals
it is dawn
and the boys

swagger with tackle
rise
and with one flick
of the wrist
repeat the ancient rite
as light gathers its
jewelry and tosses it
onto the floor,
the gold pebbled floor,
in the plunk, plunk, plunk
of fish gills grazing
surface
and the celestial glide
of fish line
translucent with intention
and glistening from
the boys’ singing
reels.