Fishing with dad

It is cold and I am sleepy.

A moonless sky
shines above our head,
a slow sun climbing its way up
from down deep in the horizon.

The smell of living trout
lives in the river,
a fall spits water through razor rocks,
froth bustles here and there.

To fish your first fish,
my father says,
is like kissing your first kiss.
Something to remember forever.

I will only remeber those words.