runs over boulders,
spills and spumes
into deep green pools
or into cutbanks
exposing roots
hiding rainbow trout
beneath a dogwood’s
white blooming
I can’t let go.
Overgrown, no room
for a kid to cast
a deer hair fly—
fresh flow of time
behind me now
I go there yet
without thinking,
without yearning,
with nothing more
than feeling
the untamed current
still run through me.
drycrikjournal 