"The River," By David Kherdian

The River

The way we fished for bullheads

was simple: hook, line, bobber,

cane pole and worm.

The murky, brown water of Root River

is where they hid

and waited our return.

The bobber was red & white.

At the first bite it danced then ran,

before going under—and I knew

that if it stayed under the fish

was on. Hooking them (they almost

always swallowed the bait)

was one thing, getting the hook

out without getting hooked oneself

on their lateral and frontal barbs

was quite another. That was

the solitary fishing

that few enjoyed as much as me.

I didn't understand then what

I needed in equal parts was

excitement, activity and adventure—

and more important than any

of these, solitude, in which my

being could be nourished

in silence. That silence

in which the imagination,

unbidden, comes to life.

Fishing alone brought

all of this together, 

because it included living

beings, the mystery of life

from another realm that I could

pursue with my body my

imagination and my mind,

marveling at what I found,

not knowing what any of it could mean

or did mean, or would mean,

as I slowly moved

through the opening days of my life

"The River" by David Kherdian, from Nearer the Heart. © Taderon Press, 2006.