catch and release

they don’t hang onto the fish once they’ve caught it. they pull it from the river, the current sliding off rainbow scales, punctuated with pebbles of darkness, slick and fluttering. they bring it to the light, its body awash in autumn sun, light twitching in motion, still living. they handle with care, pull the hook from its lip tenderly with the same sensitivity with which the spear was crafted. and the prey gets to go home. on return, how that water must feel. how grateful it must make you. still living. and the animal does not recall the hand or the hook until the next time. yes, you could come back but i’d yank the sharpness from you and send you right back where you were. the glimmer falling off of you, giving you away again. i would not wonder and i would not be sorry.