Cormorant Fishing in the Oi River Night

The torchlight shines bright in the night 
making the riverbed in front crystal clear.

The fisherman is not a brawny man, 
just an old reed with a straw beard.

Sweetfish hiding in the river lured 
by the light come drifting up. 

In the days of the Shogun, Royals 
would watch the old straws  

release their gold ring cormorants
into the glow of the Oi river night.

Their would be so many boats lined up, 
the sweetfish had no path to take.
 
The kindled torches would reflect off 
the rushing rapids the sweetfish sorrow.

Today, the reed fishes for the wealthy tourists,
regurgitating from the cormorant’s throat

the rare sweetfish that must be thrown 
back to restock the Oi for the next show. 

Still, the cormorant released from its basket
sleep takes him unawares, startles him open

with the beauty of its tattered black wings 
stretching back, its stick feet, the head

sharp as the thrust of a samurai sword.
He releases his child onto the crooning Oi.

Tethered by the slimmest lasso 
it lands in a single fluid act, graceful 

upon the slippery and shining water.
The sword’s head stabs the brightness 

and dives into the darkness, emerging 
with a sweetfish struggling in its throat. 

A gentle gesture of hand and face urges 
the cormorant to return to the boat.

The old reed squeezes with a practice hand
the cormorant’s neck against the boat.  

The shocked sweetfish comes tumbling out.
The still hungry cormorant dives again and again. 

The old reed adjusts the lantern, pounds 
the boat’s sides with his oars, enticing 

more sweetfish to be lured and caught,
until his dear sweet child is tired and 

seeks the comfort of its basket crib, it staring 
at his river father. The reed smiling back,

the two happy yet sad in the little boat,
for the old reed will not return next year.  

His son has learned the trade like thousands 
of other once brawny sons 1300 years before.