Heron on Blood and Water

by NOAH DAVIS

The way trout lie at the bottom of the river
makes me question blood and water.
How are riffles formed in flesh?

My brother stood in the same trough
for two days hunting the fish that rose
to an early-season stonefly. Three cedar
waxwings landed on his bill
that first afternoon. The brown moved
for a drifting, cased caddis on the second
morning, then was lost in what light
my brother held.

My first trout came at the logjam
the beavers forgot. The fish swam
between drowned moosewood and hemlock,
white curves at the end of his fins
brilliant as bone.

The sweet taste the sun gifted
to the spotted sides
caught the inside of my throat,
lingered like a cut, or light
in late July.