Birdcalls

I want to speak of rivers I regret not knowing. Because it is October again and the hazy morning chill gathers light from my last youthful days, when I awoke from a hunter's sleep, shotgun aimed stiff against a vacant sky, wishing my father had remembered coffee some miles back and hours ago, when I still believed in magic bird calls and conjured V-lines, when a pocketknife belonged against the left hip for luck and a fallen leaf, shaded deep red, meant more than a dollar bill. And I recall my daughter now, hair laced with hay strands from an earlier wagon ride, searching an endless pumpkin field for a faultless face, her grace balancing an oversized coat, as she patiently inspected each round shape. And the horse meadow outside Platte City, thick with hog flies, where I wanted to spend my life with you before learning to kiss, before the mysteries of moving water stilled at winter's pass and the days became cold. And maybe a drink would slow things, but I keep thinking of you and of all those rivers, but mostly of you.