catch-release

Bodies strewn miles. Blame the same. You can find my bones at the bottom of the river. Pick your teeth with the bones beneath the rubble. Big Beautiful Bonefires, burn it all down. Bottom out the bottom line.

This creek wasn’t here last week, won’t be here the next. It doesn’t even have a name. When waters well, make your own damn passage.

Wish I could do that. Not hold back. Gush till the earth gives in and swallows me.

Instead I bring my son to catch-release minnows, pick up garbage, spot cardinals, eat grapes, drape the Spanish moss like feather boas, and find fossils in the unforgiving limestone.

That’s it.
That’s everything.
Living and dying and parenting.
Grieve
and keep going.