It is mid spring as I drive by
this clear and tumbling foot hills creek
and stop before the bridge so high
dismount my truck to take a peek

This stream which many call a river
runs to white descending waters
as if it is afraid to dither
on its way to final resting quarters

Now is the time which in riffles run
above the heads of quiet pools
white sucker fish spawning in the sun
they lay stacked up like utter fools

There they are as I expected
nose to tail in shallows lit by sun
so close they seem almost connected
is spawn begun or nearly done?

I watch them hold from shaded shore
lined with laurels, oaks and birch
while I listen to the rapids' score
music played within this sylvan church

I guess I could go get a spear
and gig as many as I wish
but, instead, I'll just remain right here
too many bones in sucker fish