Bullheads

We take more than our share, Several dozen from the star- Flecked cove of a red maple Pond, fins tapered like steeples, Gill to gill in the bucket And bilge, drawn from a thicket Of drowned roots Into the night’s cool garrotes. Sorrowful brothers Choking on strange ethers, Striving, eager, bent Toward the sky by want: It was not to be, this breathing, Though not for nothing.