By Young Smith
In the river, the water moves
swiftly over moss-covered stones.
On the banks, rhododendrons and magnolias,
their branches dragging in the current.
Trout hover in the shadows of a pool,
their bellies on the gravel floor.
There are little swirls on the surface
where insects alight, and reflected
in the water’s face, the stacked rocks
of the moutainside above us.
The sun will set soon. It is time to go
home. But before we do — my father
and I stand silent together, watching
the moon rise yellow through the trees.
Years from now, though it is my own as well,
I will refuse to speak his name — but tonight,
my father and I wade into that mountain, swim
our hands through its broken-toothed peak.
Copyright 2020 Smith