he'd rise early
in the cold
morning
before the sun.
grab his gear,
his rod
his lines, his hooks
and bait.
boots up to his waist.
casting out,
reeling in,
casting out.
i'd find him in
the afternoon,
sitting on a rock,
smoking a cigarette,
the white bucket
full.
it was the same river
we fished in
when we were young.
but i left
and he stayed on.
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