DAD

 

We leave for the river.

Our spot.

Your stress reliever, my

time with you.

 

We open the steel cow-gate

and enter: Peace.

The trails wind and twist through

fields of gold and half-burned trees,

parts of forgotten Russian Olives.

 

You tell me to look for "Beaver Trees,"

and I do, even though it's the hundredth

time we've been here.

You help me over the shallow water

caused from a "high tide"

and finally, we're there.

 

The perfect view of river, rock

and mountains. We stop

like we always do, and you speak-

one of the few times you do

on this trip.

 

"Listen," you whisper, surveying the scene,

"What do you hear?

"Nothing," I answer.

"Exactly."

 

And with that final word, you close

your eyes and listen.

My favorite word of yours

Exactly.

 

by Abbey M., age 13