#brook trout

To obey, wake in the dark and put your head
in your hands. Look out the window and rest
your cheek on the shoulder of the mountain.
Rise and walk to where the creek falls finally
into the river—there an apple tree stands hung
with one last fruit: pick it or if it hangs too high
knock it down with a branch and eat it with three
juice spilling bites. From your knees kiss
the rill surrounded by forget-me-nots, beckon
a brook trout to your hands and if one arrives
study the vermiculate script worming along
its sides. Over a stick fire cook the fish until
its skin pales and peels back from the orange
flesh, then feed yourself—clean every last
silver rib and feed the skin and dead-eyed head
to the mass of ants on their moving hill. Fold yourself
into the small boat of those final bones. Row.

Chris Dombrowski, “Ten More,” from Terrain.org: A Journal of the Built + Natural Environment (May 19, 2014)