The wild trout in my freezer
keep their eyes open
for freighters and the splinters
of sunlight that pierce their green depths.

They peer at me through Ziploc plastic
and frost. They dream of Alaska.
They know more than I do
of glaciers and bait, biting flies
and mosquitos: how close
they hover to the surface
of lake water without breaking
the tension.

They know more about winter,
the crack of ice, and how far one must drop
to meet sleep.

They know the true names of river rock
and algae; they are intimate
with tree roots that search out
their watery home,
mud slick bark of aspen and white cedar,
winding lives that poke their heads
into rain clouds.

The wild trout live so far north
there is no name
for hull; no name for hook
or haul or limit.

In this California freezer,
they grow lonely as death
wintering
next to blackberries
and oat bread.
Their scales grow dull as steel.
They feel the weather driving
deeper than all the years before.
Ice-locked, they do not realize
how far from home
they really are.