It is a place I know

I know

But I have never been there

I see it in my dreams

Over and over again

And know

I know this place

A spillway of sorts

Dark fast water

Standing at the bottom early this morning


Why did I come here without a fly rod?

I know it is full of fish

Know this from experience

But I have never been there


She wears the crucifix


I have never seen her without it

Hanging down between her small breasts

Wonderful smile

The beautiful face of a young warrior

She knows I love her

Comes up behind me

A hand reaching for my shoulder

Blessing me as I turn

With that beautiful smile

You can see the loss in her eyes…and the pain

She wears the crucifix always

I have never seen her without it

Hanging down between her small breasts


Sitting in front of a remote fire at dusk

Animal sounds



A canoe overturned in front of me

The fire radiating incredible heat

Glowing orange in the twilight

I sit with pencil in hand

Scratching thoughts on the inside of the back cover

Here look the book is right here

This speaks to the significance of the memory

Of those four days and four nights in the wild


Here let me open the book at random and read the first line I see

Did you ever play this game?


“Then the keepers, in their white clothes, armed with sticks and lanterns, spread out from the buildings and beat the thickets, the copses and the fern-brakes, calling the fugitive by name and threatening him with the direst reprisals if he did not surrender immediately.” [Beckett]