upstream

we go upstream

to cast our lines into the muddy
water.

we say nothing.

quiet in the august heat
under
the looping green of long
branches.

the insects screaming
in their whispery way.

it's beyond hot, beyond
muggy.

it's a wet oven.

here, he says,
looks good to me.

we set up our little camp.
find a fallen log
to sit upon

then cast out into the brown
water
and wait.

no need to talk about what's
bothering us.
no need at all.

we're fishing.