Driving north into fields of elk and wild grass,
we left the city's clash and speed behind
to watch three turkey vultures
soar, alert, a mile above
the pool of idling carp.
At dusk a swallow flitted
through the campsite — dips and upswings,
fragments of that hyperactive song.
The Black River ran diamond clear,
facets cut by laser rays of Arizona sun.
Downstream you tried to keep in sight
the single salmon egg
bobbing toward the rapids.
Casting into the unknown,
you like to call the enterprise,
glad the Apache trout and native browns
have grown too smart for your lures.
I flipped my z-ray across a deeper pool —
an artifice of boulders that Fish and Game
with a backhoe (even here!) had made.
We wanted supper and got it.
Two pink-fleshed stockers apiece,
their spangled sides turned crisp
with butter and cornmeal, the campfire
whistling sap out of heartwood,
while we pulled meat clear from the bone.

--Alison Hawthorne Deming, Director, UA Poetry Center