The minnows leap in drying pools.
In islands of water along the creek-bed sands
They spring on drying tails, white bellies to the sun,
Gills spread, gills fevered and gasping.
The creek is sun and sand; fish throats are rasping.
One pool has a peck of minnows. One living pool
Is knuckle deep with dying, a shrinking yard
Of glittering bellies. A thousand eyes look, look,
A thousand gills strain, strain the water-air.
There is plenty of water above the dam, locked and deep—
Plenty, plenty, and held. It is not here.
It is not where the minnows spring with lidless fear.
They die as men die. Leap, minnows, leap.