I’ve seen fish fly. Up north where the softwood is so thick you can’t walk the forest without an axe. I’ve seen a fourteen-inch brookie glide through the air, its paper tail feathering the breeze, sun glistening in its scales, sailing across the sky and headfirst smack into a snarl of beaks. Gripped in the osprey’s talons, it goes like it was meant to go…
