The Reveal of the Rocks
The August days of summer weighed in full
Upon us, green and heavy with sweet scents.
That month had seen a drought–the worst in years;
The brook beside our farm had ceased to flow.
Just trickles now where springtime melts had rushed,
Stones long-submerged now basked in noonday light.
A path was there that hadn’t been before;
My father saw it too, and he saw me–
I never guessed he’d join me on that day.
I see my father now as he was then:
Determined, yet with calm and even stride.
Responsibility had grayed his hair
And obligations kept had slowed his pace.
He knew to be my father, not my friend,
But still, his youthful gait gave a subtle hint
Of him, the boy, the one I never knew,
Of baseball, fishing–his own summer days.
I wish I could have seen his lead-off hits,
His flashing glove to start the double-play.
I knew the tales from uncles and his friends,
But rarely did I hear a boast from him.
We walked in silence on the rocks, almost
As if our ages had become the same.
His words were few, as nothing need be said;
He led the way; I followed two steps back.
The art of hopping, one rock to the next,
Is learned and loved by any child of ten.
I knew this brook and woods, my magic land;
He knew them too; it dawned on me that day.
Still pools just isolated here and there,
The water-striders glided on the glass.
The minnows and the crayfish underneath
Slow-waited for the autumn rains to drench.
Mosquitoes and the tiny dread black flies
Came after us, but only at half speed;
The dog days even slowed the insects down.
We kept our pace, perspiring as we went
Some distance past the mark of state-owned land.
We reached the railroad tracks of that old line,
Abandoned now, half-overgrown with brush.
We walked beneath the bridge of ancient planks,
Like Roman ruins lost to moss and age.
I skipped a stone into the shadowed depths
Under the bridge; it splashed and echoed dark.
No further could we hop-step on the rocks;
Near twilight then, we headed back for home.
No hint of wind, no gentle summer breeze,
The dragonflies half-drifted here and there.
The frogs and bees and birdsong chirped and buzzed;
I wondered what my father thought of me.
I never saw the brook that slow again;
The path is underwater to this day.
I’m far away now from that afternoon,
But that strange spell of August warmth endures
Like relics of the saints once used as cures.
Kyle Fiske is the author of the historical fiction novel Dragons and Boxers, set in Boxer Rebellion-era China. He has also published a collection of speculative fiction short stories called Even Closer Than the Sea. He lives on scenic Cape Ann, Massachusetts, and his website is www.kylefiskeauthor.com.
