The window overlooks the river
  dark with rain. There a boy.
The fish are afraid, he believes.
  With this belief, his steps
are carefully placed. No mad bear,
  no wounded deer, no warrior
flown; a boy walks there, in dark
  rain, under riverbank trees.

The lightning ruptures air. What
  does he think; that thunder
sutures the massive chemistries
  of cloud; that bodies of God
are born again; that he's worm
  enough to treble-bait? It is
hard to say. A boy walks there,
  on ivy path, under oaken leaves.

The window overlooks the river,
  open to this land. There a hunger
hooking prey. What is stealth
  in all this noise; what is the rain
to steely scales upon a string?
  There a boy, aging with knowledge
plain, fishing. Here a stove,
  silverware and heart, awaiting.