Just beneath the road insensate, in the little creek that crawls through town, the rains brought him. Iron-blue, patient, slender, high sits his head – a lance, now raised – now half-tilt as he sights his prey – raised again as a drifting leaf disrupts his aim. Upstream he prowls, that his prey sees him not. He stalks with long, slow strides, his legs thin and graceful not to disturb the quiet current of the water and give himself away to senseless quarry. Few call him spindly, I imagine. Not I. By the shore, fish-bones, whole but for the flesh, sink into the mud. A thoughtless dart, a flash, a writhing beast falls still on his speartip. What am I, then, that he flies when I draw close?