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Gratefulness
Walking the river back home at the end of May, locust in bloom, an oriole flitting through dusky crowns, and the early night sky going peach, day’s late glow the color of that fruit’s flesh, dribbling down over everything, christening my sons, the two of them walking before me after a day of fishing, one of them placing a hand on the other’s shoulder, pointing toward a planet that’s just appeared, or the swift movement of that yellow and black bird disappearing into the growing dark, and now the light, pink as a crabapple’s flower, and my legs tired from wading the higher water, and the rocks that keep turning over, nearly spilling me into the river, but still thankful for now when I have enough strength to stay a few yards behind them, loving this time of day that shows me the breadth of their backs, their lean, strong legs striding, how we all go on in this cold water, heading home to the sound of the last few trout splashing, as mayflies float through the shadowed riffles.
This poem first appeared in Native Species by Todd Davis, published by Michigan State University Press, 2019. Posted by kind permission of the poet.
I grew up in a family that did not tell the story. I am listening…
a body is always a body individual or collective (whole or in many pieces) alive…
Let plain things please you again and every ordinary Monday. Bean soup in a white…
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