Michael, the River and My Mind

In unison we slammed old
station wagon doors and walked
away a ways, side-
by-side and silent
underneath the arching stone bridge.

We stood in the river,
Dad. You likened it to
time: its perpetual passing,
the way it slowly wears
away at us and even at
the pictures in our minds—rock
rendered fictile and listless.
You said, sometimes we only cast once.
You did, and I felt life’s fight
at the end of the line. We
brought her up into the air,
yellow, green, gold and
spotted; opened her belly
with our hands; and prayed
our quiet prayers.

Photo by Michael Stimola