Before the last moonbeam disappears
you’ve filled your canteen with water
and your thermos with coffee
and backed up the old truck to the boat trailer.

Never mind that I prefer to sleep in
on my days off, I’m with you.
We drive on back roads to a place you know,
and slip the boat into the water.

As the sun comes up, fog rises from the creek.
We cut through the mist to a deep hole
filled with old brush. We once found crappie here
and hope to again. But even if we don’t

it’s the day on the water that’s the thing,
the hush, the stillness, you and me
communicating without words, until
“Damn! Tangled again.”