Trysting No One

After years of laying bait
To catch love (a silver trout, I’m told)
Or baiting love, catching laying,
Or just making love, crafting it from faces,

(The fish know just the lure
And nothing of the arching rod
Grown supple, lithe,
Well-practiced on dry land)

I grew tired of the sport of it
And sat on the bank, watching
The fish do other things
Besides getting hooked.

The water cleared, I saw the stones;
Fish have their realm and I have mine.
And when they jumped into my hand
It came as no surprise or victory.