Golden hot fields of
grasshoppers
always one jump ahead of us,
flying hard into the tall weeds
safe from my uncle's cupped hands
and the rusty
tobacco
bait can
in his vest pocket.
Lying low and silent in dry grass
they escape the fate of fishing poles
and the points of barbed hooks.
They avoid cold creek water
and wary old trout
longing for fat bugs.
Hunter and hunted,
one thing becoming another,
each avoiding death
until the very end.
Let there be grace
in our swirling
under the spell of
water and sky and earth
and the smell
of new willows
rooted along the bank.
From where the trees stand,
all is well.