In the tender clasp of Capilano’s embrace,
an eight-year-old boy sits with father,
their syncopated hearts and eyes wide
with grace, to sit together by the river’s
soft sweet murmur, assurance brought on
by the sussurance of Nature’s rhythm
and rhyme. Their hearts pound silent,
as, with baited breath, they strain to see
their muddied dreams. And after a time
they reel in their lines, cast them floating
through the air. And should darkness
appear and chase them home, they’ll
smile, laugh through the gloam. And their
cooler sits catchless with them, and the fish
stay behind, remain thankless, for they
will not know that they were not the goal
of the two streamed blurry figures above
in the cool and murky Capilano world.
we love you sam