River

Through the knotweed. Down the ladder made of tree roots. Up onto the big rock. By the river. I stand, mud on my ankle and cuts on my knees. The sun sits just barely above the trees as the sweat sits just above my brow. I look hard through the yellow August light at the water. The water. The water that holds fish. The water that compels me. Looking for a sign. A ripple out of place or a branch in the water. That is where the big fish are. I clutch my rod. I cast my rod. The smell of worm and sweat and mud and the sound of wind and bird and breath flood my eyes and nose until I cannot smell the smell of worm and sweat and mud and I cannot hear the sound of wind and bird and breath. Just water. Around me and in me and everywhere. When I die and when you die, we will meet here, 42.27803683154458, -73.30728374317647, the river.