by Ron Wilkins

Dressed in the lightest tempura,
deep fried, whole, complete,
a small mouthful
head and bones crunchy,
flesh delicate, delicious,
faintly earthy, like wild mushrooms,
drawn by some imprinted memory
the taste of flowers on autumn rice
all the way from Siberian cold
to be netted by rice farmers
in the paddies of Guangdong,
a furious toil of 20 days
protecting their crops
and onto our table in Sanshui,
like migrating insects
caught in a web
devoured by spiders.