That’s me on his left. If neither one of us 
looks comfortable, it’s because I said 
I’m sorry to hear about his heart. 
A small machine, he says, sends tiny sparks 
in there, to pace the flow of blood. 
Some people will dispute this photo; his office 
has denied it’s me; but I have to believe 
I am in the picture. It’s awkward, yes, 
for we don’t know each other; 
and if he’s known as a man who keeps 
public secrets, I’m not known at all. 
Even so, he and I share something 
that we cherish, deeply, which is our love

of trout. On his Wyoming ranch, he owns 
a trout stream for himself. When I raise 
the question—How’s the fishing?—he will rise 
to the subject, and we will have grown 
a little closer, having now disclosed 
a passion no one, having known, lets go. 
And he, too, is a man who knows cold blood 
of trout cares nothing for who you are. 
Nor do they care who owns the land 
their water flows within: So long 
as land and stream stay clean, they live. 
Because I must rely on public lands 
to find—weighed out in the flash 
of a trout’s brilliant scales—that cleanly order, 
I’m concerned about his sympathy 
with those who call such places “undeveloped.”