Bray Mattheson

Fishlets in the River

I see them flickering,

tiny silver bullets,

the bane of

water werewolves,

if there even are such

things.

Maybe there are,

and they mate

with the mermaids,

spitting their offspring

down the

rivers and fjords—

silver fishlets

to grow up

and get netted,

battered,

and fried.