A Spot to Rest

If you lie down by the Squannacook long enough you will turn to mud and silt. Crayfish will burrow into you to sleep, safe from hungry herons. Butterflies may flutter down and land on you. To them you’ll simply be the riverbank. In time you’ll acquire the same scent as your father when he’s been netting brown trout in the rain. You may find yourself calling out for him while, as always, he’ll be upstream a stretch casting a midge or caddis into a riffle. He’ll hear, but you’ll sound to him like muffled wind or maybe water flowing over polished cobble. By and by, as he’s known to say, he’ll come looking for you. It could take years and by then he’ll only see dark, rich soil and a carpet of tender grass. An enticing spot to rest, he’ll realize, after a life spent fishing.