Don't worry I'll be there soon
in my old beat up pickup truck
on this evening of a half full moon.
We'll see if we have any luck.

I know that you prefer your trout
from tumbling mountain waterways
where hemlocks whisper and rapids shout
and cool reigns on these summer days.

But that would be too hard and far
(your withered body tells me so)
so we'll go to where a gravel bar
floods only when the turbines flow.

And we'll talk while on this ride
but not about that hunter, near,
who seeks to steal you from your bride
and all the others you hold dear.

Nor about that chemo port implanted
or arms or eyes devoid of hair
or vanished strength you took for granted.
Conversation steers away from there.

Instead we talk about the past
days on the water and in the field,
times we thought would always last.
An assumption now too soon repealed.

Now here we are at the tailrace:
no turbines running, all is still
below that stark grey concrete face
which looms like a steep granite hill.

I'll help you down the riprap bank
to shallow water, crystal clear
as in a drinking fountain's tank
hoping that some trout are here.

We quietly wade and cast a bit
as goose and gull cries fill the air
until your legs grow tired of it
and I assist you out of there.

And no, don't tell me on this day
you want me to have your fishing stuff
"The time for that is far away!"
I tell you in a voice grown gruff.

On the way back to your place
we take the longer scenic route
and spy some deer at a homeplace
on this, the last time we went out.
..........
In receiving line I shake my head
to bring myself back to the here
where brother now lies still and dead
and I choke back yet another tear...