I walk across the ice. The fish sleep beneath my feet. I can see them with their eyes and mouths frozen open. I remember baiting them with hidden barbed hooks. They do not know that I am here, or that I ever was. I may not be there when the ice returns to water. But the fish will be. They will swim slow and hungry under the sun. I will be thinking of them. Their eyes and mouths, my rod and reel. I will be drunk in my chair. They will have escaped my teeth, tongue and fire. But there will be no escape for me.