Strolling along the path by
a narrow bend in the stream,
I recall a childhood image -
my four-year-old self
and a gaggle of cousins
stooped over the river bank;
yellow nets on a loop of wire
at the end of bamboo poles
longer than the tallest of us.
We jostled for position, elbows set,
seeking vantage, jam-jars ready.
And always a shoal of minnows
would gather around our idling nets,
scattering as we swept to catch.
I remember too, there was always one
that kept its distance, circumspect,
off in the shade of a wavering plant.
And now, as I gaze past the reflecting
glare of the shimmering summer sun,
I see a small shoal drifting leisurely by -
and then, as my eyes grow accustomed,
off by itself, a single, cautious, minnow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem