I cannot fly, on thermal paths of the osprey’s sky
nor can I hunt with quickened feathered wing-beats
but I too, have fished in magic waters,
heaved my innards over the side
of my grandfather’s boat
bobbed in the river’s maw
with sweaty pale-faced groans while
my riverboat captain, my grandfather
laughed a booming laugh,
my abandoned rod arched in his meaty
hands, as he reeled in my undeserved harvest,
a ballooning silver salmon
slapping foam against the hull.
We reaped this monumental moment
together. My grandfather clapped my back
and laughed that face-saving laugh,
“At’s alright, Jimmy! You feed ‘em, I’ll catch ‘em!”
and for that, if only for that
I believe.
