Forty-five hundred feet high,
a tapestry of sandstone,
crimson, and gold covers the
late October Smokies.
I look out at the
                valleys and peaks,
                              rocky and vast,
like the ones in me.
The river is alive.
I cast a line and stare at the
clear rushing water,
wondering if it ever tires,
and after
three quarters of an hour,
an enormous rainbow trout leaps up,
startled,
curved pointed metal
sinking into gasping gills,
her thick iridescent skin shining for miles.
We gaze at each other
as she dies pressed
firmly under my palm,
and a thousand orange eggs
perish with her.
The children squeal when
I drop her head into the bucket
on top of the heads and spines
of her relatives.
Her babies go in next.
This tranquil mountain scene is stained with blood.
A red leaf dances past my face,
I breathe in the scent of campfire,
a Mother and a Murderer–
a giver and taker of life–
I walk back to the old house
to prepare supper.