His River

I found your old stream again last night Dad
You know the one with overhanging limbs,
fallen trees and a winding current that teems
with that sparkling essence you suggested I respect.
I walked along in my waders carrying fresh tears in my creel,
Knowing I’d like to have you with me, here, aside me
walking trails, tying lures and crawling upon rocks
while we waited patiently in the fresh morning’s dew.
The art of reading the lie of a river is magic,
A mystique your patience taught me to imagine.
This morning in the crisp dawn I took a moment
and watched a cloud streak high across the sky,
And I imagined quiet as the water played my cast
Quick as my line danced the creek, I’d found solace
And a whisper that is your voice told me again to work the line
“There’s our bridge up ahead” its small and rusty with age
his eyes would scan the sun-streaked water with ease
the sky now glazed, a sudden reflective haze guides me.
If I walk slow I might well share a rise with your eyes.