Shall I compare thee to a Kawasaki? To a just-launched RPG? To a juiced-up 100-meter sprinter popping from Olympic starting blocks? Afforded my full quiver — snarky similes, literate metaphors and intricate conceits — I would nonetheless fall short of characterizing my beloved bonefish’s unsurpassed short-range surge and velocity.
Does the poet’s insufficient diction shame him? Hardly. He is consoled, rather, by the company he keeps. Even Carl Linneaus failed. (Though of course, White Fox? Sure, the vulpine nose, the cunning, but a fox trots. How about White Fox-With-Its-Tail-On-Fire-And-A-Pack-Of-Hounds-In-Pursuit?
