Yesterday as I came across the Collinsville Bridge over the Farmington River, I noticed something I’m usually not fortunate enough to see in the minute or less it takes to drive across. In the row of hunched shoulders, poles hanging over the side, connected to the rushing waters below by a hair-strand of line, one man had caught a fish. With his pole in one hand, and what I could see of a wriggling fish in his other, he was releasing it from the hook. It was a small one, about two inches of tail flipped wildly out the edge of his grip. Once he’d freed it, he hauled back and flung the fish high into the air over the water. I could see it wriggling as it arced and dropped out of sight.
I wondered what the fish was thinking–if he thought at all. Was he terrified, or still stunned by the fight, the pulling through the wall of worlds between air and water. Was this the first time he’d ever seen a man, glowering down at him in judgement of his size.
And the flight, was it one of shock and terror, or did he, discovering something so incredible it was beyond his imagination, soar?