He felt faint again now but he held on the great fish all the strain that he could. I moved him, he thought. Maybe this time I can get him over. Pull, hands, he thought. Hold up, legs. Last for me, head. Last for me. You never went. This time I'll pull him over.
But when he put all of his effort on, starting it well out before the fish came alongside and pulling with all his strength, the fish pulled part way over and then righted himself and swam away.
"Fish," the old man said. "Fish, you are going to have to die anyway. Do you have to kill me too?"
Koan: If you speak to the mountain, it will not get smaller.
Saint Marty has a month of poetry events ahead of him.
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