I want to see a star from a high place, not necessarily a mountain. Maybe a tree limb. To sit quietly, no kicking my leg or swaying my body like I have a baby in my arms. That baby is grown up and learning to fly fish thousands of miles away on a lake where sometimes a loon floats, usually absent on a cloudy night. Maybe the loons are pissed off that no one will adore their stripes without starlight or that their cries may not break the sound barrier. Maybe stars guide the fish, whole schools wriggling the way I do sitting on a rocking chair on this dock, tapping my fingers as if the fish in the pond are goldfish that know the merit of sprinkles from fingers over waves. As if my wiggle or  jiggle has some meaning to light on water or deep currents. If I sit and look long enough, maybe the clouds will blow away. I could be the fish in that lake. And the loon might come.

[image: fish school | Simon Tuckett]