Where the young Ohio
takes its southern turn
under the bridge of steel and stone at the old rusted dock, you returned.
A freight train rumbled by, headed northwest.
We sang and smoked and dreamed
as other brothers had done before.
You talked. I listened.
The morning dew lied as the sun soared.
And I was with you, this time around.
You taught me how to study the water
and all the things you know;
how to cast, retrieve, which jig for which fish to see what moves below.
As a coal barge dried slowly downstream.
Through the wooded hills behind the house
under the leafy canopy, we trekked.
Past the old ambulance that sits among the trees
birdsong and twigs were the only sounds we came to expect.
A cool breeze hinted at Septemberʼs coming.
Walking sticks turned to swords
trees to enemies and hats to helmets. Then, from the back porch, momʼs voice “boys, time to come home” she tells us.
And the woods became woods again.
In your translucent way,
you paused under those ancient oaks
beams of sun made their way through the leaves and through you. You smirked as if to tell another joke.
Even the birds stopped singing.
With your eyes
half there, half here
you threw your head back and laughed at something you shouldnʼt wrapped me in your bear-like arms and drew me near.
And off you went.
Lightly I strolled back to the road your playful voice still sang clearly “You get a line. Iʼll get a pole...”
And joy and cheer overwhelmed me.
And still does.
John Daniel Reed