I’d never trade the roaring brook
that bordered our front yard
for anything. My brother took
A logging camp was struck up there
about at century’s end.
I jumped across the stream on rocks
to pick some flowers I’d seen.
He soon joined. I showed the flowers;
once more we’re in our teens.
He’d pulled a fish off of my hook
when I was barely twelve.
I cried, I’ve caught him in the eye.
Will he be all right? I asked.
He’ll be fine. He threw him back
and then rejoined his friends.
We went back home, my friends and I.
I never fished again.
I remind him of the story now,
we, in our seventies.
He smiles the smile you give a child
whose tears start at a glance.