My father has never seen so many.
They warm themselves on a boulder
one hundred feet below
on the coal pit’s rim,
rearing square oversized jaws,
writhing into knots and untangling.
They drop into the water one by one,
push rabid foamy pods
across the scorched surface
with trap sprung mouths,
mount the boulder again.
We sit above them, tackle box at our feet,
our eyes held by their fangs
until sun burns the morning clear.
There will be another time to fish.