Downriver rocks were rapids.Believe me,
even fish have ears.Sweating, we coasted
too far out on a river we've fished
for forty years.I swear it's never
been this low, but two old cousins
can't keep the Brazos full forever.
Sharp rocks are death to aluminum boats
harder to split than wood.We're safe,
spitting out mud and minnows, but alive
after months of drought and a soaking.
Bury the boat and forget it.
We could have drowned any wet year
under tons of the Brazos flooding
downhill to the dam.We could be food
for alligator gar and catfish.
That rip is wider than the lies
we'll tell for months, the size of bass
that got away, the granddaddy cat
we finally caught that flipped
and disappeared through the hole
of the boat, going down.Let's sit
on the bank and laugh at why we let
eight-hundred dollars of rods and tackle
sink and saved a shell worth less
than beer cans we crush for salvage
every day, two old fools splashing ashore,
dragging a gashed boat out
as if dry land could save it,
like old bones mired in mud we've proved
can rise and walk again.