I troll along the south shore,
where other fishermen say
the angling is no good: too shallow,
too many weeds. With their fish finders,
they cluster off Princess Creek,
but I don't see them catching anything.
 
The lake lies flat mirroring sky.
An osprey rides the currents,
until he spies a trout,
folds his wings and drops
like a swift mountain stream
falling over the edge of a cliff,
plunging talons first
into his own reflection . . .
 
Emerging in a fury of spray,
wings widespread, using them as oars,
the bird strokes against the surface,
flapping steadily to reach the air again,
nosing his wriggling prey into the wind.
 
I point the bow at the spot
where the osprey caught the rainbow.
More times than not, that is the place
my pole starts to bend. 

 From Catching the Limit (Bedbug Press-Fairweather Books (2009).
This poem has appeared in Spectrum, Anthology of Magazine Verse & Yearbook of American Poetry (Monitor Book Company), Here We Speak: An Anthology of Oregon Poetry (Oregon State University Press), and Deer Drink the Moon: Poems of Oregon (Ooligan Press, Portland State University).
Used here with the author's permission.