The Fish

I caught a fish, I don’t know why, I hadn’t planned on fishing today. But that was when I was transfixed by the quietness of the water, by the way the sun shone like polished stone and the water was clear as a day without history. When I dropped the line, something stirred in the deep, a slow flicker of gold beneath the surface, moving slowly like a thought as it begins to rise. It rose up, and I caught it, a glimmering flashing beauty of silver, its scales shimmering like little mirrors. It knew it was caught, but it fought my hand, fighting for life. It was beautiful, full of light, full of colors that sparkled and glistened, all the hues of morning, of dusk, of night. And I held it in my hands, I knew it was mine, at least for a moment, but I felt the pull, the weight of life,
it was fighting for breath and I was aghast. I released it, I put it back in the water, I spoke to it in gentle tones, that it was free, that it could swim away. But it was a gift, that was now a memory, to see how it glided away. And still there was not a sound on the surface, only the ripples, each circle becoming part of the ocean.

• Mary Oliver