In a stream that flows to Marjorie,
the Grayling dance and swim for me.
Their strip-ed fins and X-ing spots,
and violet hues with polka-dots
The sailfish chassis, trim and slim.
With energy that bursts within.
Pausing then to rise for bugs,
that fall from luscious meadows' rugs.
The milt and eggs dropped in pea-gravel,
and back into the lake they travel.
This exhibition is quite queer,
and only happens once a year.
To witness it is most divine,
forever pressed into my mind
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem