Bywater

for the Dads

My Dad, with two of my girls

I nearly always
outfish him
but he never complains,
if he’s on the water
the satisfied grin
doesn’t oft leave his face

He doesn’t say much
but you can see the change,
we connect on the river
with very little exchange

We’re off, riding for the
rush — promise of a new day,
hunting down shiners
at the crack of dawn

I’m part Indian, he’ll say
(his jokes make me question his claim to me,
but he does have an ancient tan)

My enthusiasm begins to wane
when I get scorched by noon —
small talk between red skin, fishes,
and worms, consumed

On the lake, just me with Dad,
best communication I’ve ever had