I dated a bass player who owned a summer home in the Catskills.

He liked to deck me out in fishing vest and waders and plop me into the East Branch of the Delaware River, where he'd attempt to teach me fly fishing. I'm sure the sight of my awkward casting style had none of the "River Runs Through It" visual poetry. But there was a fish who hung out an entire season in front of Russell's house on the Beaver Kill, and I wrote a poem for him, clearly having smoked a bowl of good weed, allowing me to channel Seuss at the end. I just found the long-lost piece in a journal from the day. Here:

For Fred

I have found a friend in Fred,
my fine-finned fish of the
freshwater.
Pointing upstream,
blithely bobbing between boulders,
free-floating in a tremulous tread
within the waters of his
crystal cave.
Changes course to feed,
does Fred,
concurrently chasing his
chosen fuel; feisty Fred.
My favorite fish,
my ever-finning Fred.

Postscript:
No finnan haddie is my friend;
not carp, not cod, not catfish.
No rainbow paints his slimy sides;
a fine brown trout is thatfish.