Watching him

watch for the possibility

of fish, eyes scrupulous and farouche, his great

gray egg of a body stumped over the pond,

I know the difference between us.

Once satisfied, he’ll paddle

into the sky, celebrating the bank, his

prey, his vigorous carcass as he dumps

his own sweet stink behind him.

And I will be too old for most things

before the natural passing

of my own merciless witness

frees me from being

bothered by shit.