In the bucket are fish
your mother caught in the pond
by her house above you on this mountain.

She must have been up early
to have caught so many.
You hear the silvery fish thrash
the water as the bucket descends
before you see what she has
lowered down to you with a note
taped to the side of the plastic pail
“clean all, send half back.”

You had plans this morning.
You were going to weed in the flowers
that grow alongside the front walk.

You lift the bucket off its hook.
Your mother high above you
feels the weight release.