Catching Crayfish
On a summer field trip we went to the river
to spend the afternoon catching crayfish.
Camp counselors wrangled us into two lines,
one for boys and one for girls.
They led us to the water’s edge
where they handed out small nets
with wooden handles, and told us
to only go as far as the large white rock.
I waded into the water,
allowing the cold river to rush
past my ankles, my knees,
then halfway up my thighs.
At the bottom of the riverbed,
minnows swam around me
like a plume of smoke.
I found one hiding in a crevice
beneath a mossy rock.
This creature was smaller than a lobster,
but larger than a shrimp,
with two menacing claws that pinched.
It had a mottled brown shell
that it wore like a suit of armor,
hard and impenetrable.
I dipped the net deep and scooped it up
high into the air, its body thrashing
as its many legs tangled
with the webbing of the net,
its small black eyes glaring
as I dumped it into the bucket
with all the other crayfish that had the misfortune
of being captured by middle schoolers.
At the end of the day,
we emptied the buckets of crayfish
into the river and watched as they scattered
and scuttled away, until all we could see
was the water-covered earth beneath our feet.
Caitlin O’Halloran is a biracial Filipino-American poet who studies in a poetry workshop taught by Katia Kapovich. She has a Bachelor of Arts from Boston University in Philosophy and History. Her work has been published in Vast Chasm Magazine, BarBar Literary Magazine, and Apricity Magazine. www.caitlinohalloran.com