The startling scream
like one shocked from a dream,
the feathers, the flight
dangerously downward,
like free-falling knives
to puncture the lake
as a shot mirror breaks,
the shards ripple out
in a moment of doubt,
the wings skip a beat
and the catch is complete.
He emerges, reborn,
a corkscrew of motion
writhing, wriggling
like old film distortion,
until his feathers dry out.
a good day for the seahawk
is a bad day for the trout.
