BY A STREAM YOU COULD LEAP ACROSS, EASILY

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.