In the mountains of Wyoming
A trout looks up through the roof
Water makes. Feathers, fur, a fine
Thread of invisible chord skirt
The surface, and the trout's mind
Makes the sign for fly. Who knows
How this is done? Whether the trout
Sees the flit, the flicker on water
And recalls the brief satisfaction
Of air, the knot of legs,
Wings that collapse? And so
It leaps with its whole body.
Inveterate. And your biceps
Tighten, don't they? For a moment
You become the fish―pure muscle,
Desire tethered to desire. A stone
Skipped across this same river.
You tug back, sink the hook.

-- Tracy K. Smith, lines from "Astral" in duende

Tracy K. Smith