The water of La Plata lake is so clear
this morning, the big bass who goes for
my golden spoon I view like a photo
from Field & Stream.
Some things are best left unseen;
I botch setting the hook,
feel the fish’s disappearance
through my limp line.

I say to my fishing fanatic
fifteen year old, as we drive
back home, someday we’ll
look back on all these leisurely
times and wonder where
they went. He nods, he knows,
but that truth can’t touch him yet
like it does me.

His older sister is looking at colleges,
may move out of state soon.
Once she goes we’ll never have
the six of us together as a full time
family again, no matter how many Christmas
times they manage to make it back from some
place more compelling than Kirksville.

I see this too, like a photo
in the digital camera
I still somehow have yet
to get a feel for, an image
I will lose forever,
like the big fish who flees,
vanished ghost who never may offer
a second opportunity.