"No life, my honest Scholar, no life so happy and so pleasant,
as the life of a well-governed Angler."
In Late March Up There
Under the hillside ceanothus
in pale bloom, blooms
A nightshade, bright fresh blue
in shadow. Here below,
Sits a tiny stone-colored frog,
looking very knowing in his stone niche ...
Bitter scent of skunk on the wind, ahead
old tortoise on poolside rock
Head and neck outstretched,
sunning his throat.
And the fi shing's in low, clear water
the sun pouring straight down,
And scarce cover, just the shelving
shale and the boulders,
The set of diffi
slightly diff erent
At every run and pool. Working
upstream, a happiness near complete,
Among such quick-to-declare-themselves