From the speckled pond
beneath the streetlamps,
flit tiny fish.
They venture out to
the ripples, the ruffles
the downhill run.
They could be trout
or some other
tiny torpedo made of
dancing sinews,
fins like smoke.
They wear
blue black overcoats
and silver vests,
watchful for the birds,
the trees,
pH changes,
the grasses
littered in sunlight.
Another drain of
a place zoned
semi industrial.
There is no end
to the stream,
trickle additions,
only a growing
water’s plunge.
Somewhere
an ocean beckons.
-Travis Stephens
Travis Stephens was raised on a Wisconsin dairy farm. Gone west, he is a tugboat captain who lives with his family in California. His recent credits include CIRQUE, APEIRON REVIEW, GRAVITAS, CROSSWINDS POETRY JOURNAL, SHEILA-NA-GIG, and DEAD MULE SCHOOL OF SOUTHERN LITERATURE.