Me with my rolled up jeans,

A fourteen-year-old again,

And sneakers wet

And stocking cap

And fishing rod to boot.

Built a bridge today, we did,

My Lady Of The Streams and I,

Logs across the water tip to bank,

Pulled hard from tangled riverjam

While standing braced and balanced

On a timber giant laid

Among these tumbling stones

For the least a half a century,

Barkless, slickskinned, blackwet shiny.

Crossed the bridge and fished

(As others will, I trust),

Each shady hole a promise to behold,

A mystery-dance with Nature,

Catching nothing,

Standing wet in rain,

And laughing with the hoot

Of rushing mountain water-roar.

(Cottonwood Creek, beyond Lake San Cristobel, near Lake City, Colorado.)