It doesn’t matter if
there are no fish,
in streams or rivers
that I pass.
I often stop,
and stare awhile,
imagining
where they might lie,
behind which rock,
or run or riffle.
Sometimes I think
I almost see them,
even though
they don’t exist.
It doesn’t matter if
there’s only this
one breath breathing
in and out.
With each breath,
I often stop,
imagining
what lies ahead,
or else behind,
not fish, but fears,
quick-silver darting,
tails flashing.
Sometimes I almost
think I see them,
even though
they don’t exist.
—Sarah Rossiter
