The longest night
was greeted by the most rapturous day,
a time looked forward to for years,
the rite of father and son
toting rods and reels,
driving to the lake.
The boy belonged.
Even if it was his father’s hands
on the car wheel,
his father’s choice of fishing spot,
his father’s gruff voice
directing him how to bait his hook,
cast into the waters.
So what.
Even the learning
felt like power.
Seated on the bank,
he watched and waited,
thinking to himself –
first, the rake,
next, the wheelbarrow,
now this.
From time to time,
his father broke away
from his usual
stark and uncompromising stoicism,
smiled in the boy’s direction.
Crows cawed.
Warblers trilled.
Secret languages were everywhere.
