Imagine boys in summer,
knee-deep in flowing waters,
Jeans above their knees,
hands wet and slimy
with the remnants of a passing frog…or two.
The brine of seaweed
Causing ripples in the brook,
As striders skate across the top
and dance along the murky film.
Two boys intrepid in their cause
to catch a passing fish,
Just so they can throw it back,
or eat it
if they wish.