The cleaning of trout is determined by blood. Sleek from current, played fast to avoid lactic and destruction of skin, decided by hook piercing jaw, just nicking the vein. But blood betrays spirit like a decrepit Christ. This one, long since baptism endured it to river, is claim for the meal. Rose too quick, rolled too late for release. At shore sharpened blade penetrates vitals; drawn straight to gill, cradled in river, splayed open like petals in a storm. The purple nerve etched clean by thumbnail – enticing that final quiver. In pictures their eyes strain ever downward, always to water. Here, glazed in thoughtless frost, opposed. The flesh wrapped damp in wildflower and weed, about to service home.