The Height Was the Problem

My branch is the best branch on the river. It's high — higher than the bridge, higher than the old heron's rock — and from up there I can see every fish in the water.

The problem is what happens after that.

The first fish was fat and slow. I fell on it like a stone. I hit the water. The fish did not.

The second one was thin and close to the bank. I waited. I counted. I fell faster this time, and I came up with a mouth full of green leaves.

The old heron watched from her rock. She didn't laugh, because herons can't laugh, but she stood in a way that looked like laughing.

“Come down,” she said. “You can't fish from up there. The height is the whole problem.”

So I came down. I stood in the cold water, in the boring low place, next to the boring old bird, and I waited.

The third fish swam right past my feet.

I caught it. I actually caught it! I was so happy that I opened my mouth to shout, and my first fish ever swam away, free, back into the river.

Tomorrow I fish from the low water again. Tomorrow I also keep my mouth shut.