The New Yorker often has good poetry. This one reminds me of how far we have come from the old meaning of fishing:

And now he feels he’s in his element,

Baiting a hook and casting forth the line,

And through clear water sees a heaven-sent

Swift flash of silver rise into air and shine.

Ah, let it go-go, dart back to the deep.

A lovely thing, but much too small to keep.

Does a phisher ever say “nah, this one is much too small”? Not enough data, or maybe too poor to steal from?

Probably not. The modern phisher is about as unlikely to follow catch-and-release rules as a greedy seagull. Or, as Henry Wadsworth Longfellow put it in Hiawatha’s Fishing:

Three whole days and nights alternate
Old Nokomis and the seagulls
Stripped the oily flesh of Nahma,
Till the waves washed through the rib-bones,
Till the sea-gulls came no longer,
And upon the sands lay nothing
But the skeleton of Nahma.

And upon the silicon lay nothing but the skeleton of users..