River Run

by David Ackley


Twice you slip out the door, old friend;

when they bring you back,

you say you were going up north fishing.


It's a yearning amid the waning,

to fish for rainbows this time of year,

when the sun is highest in the sky,

and the alderflies hatch and mate, and die.


Still there must have been a moment

when time snapped open

to the river you'd have ridden

all the way to the blue lake


before they reeled you in, and fitted

with an ankle bracelet you're remitted

to this place with a name like home.


Nearly wordless now, my old

friend, it takes us few to give the

meaning to your " river,”

with cream-flecked rapids, an old breached wooden dam,

the subtle splash of feeding trout, and the broad

blue-black spill between the ranked spruce.