Is it curiosity, or an urge
beyond me that attracts them to the gurgle
of my surface lure, that battered, vintage
Jitterbug? On clear, dark evenings, eyes
glow and flicker in the beam of light
from the lamp strapped to my forehead—five
otters at the edge of sedge and bulrush
measuring my slightest twitch. Often,
the young swim out to open water, circle,
plunge, resurface, each time closer to
the dock from which I cast for largemouth bass.
Occasionally, they’ll chatter a few feet
away from me. Their mother answers with
a chuckle from the reeds. But, only once
has she emerged. She dove and quickly popped
back up, a hefty, flapping catfish plucked
from mud, clenched firmly in her jaws, as if
to show those who watched the way it’s done,
then paddled off beyond the lily pads,
old Jitterbug wobbling slowly in her wake.
