Issue 19, Summer 1958
The river was Missouri’s farthest source—
So clear and shallow, even stones and sand,
Under that sun, seemed golden in its course.
Men came for gold. Some failed, but took the land.
My father fished here summers, scaled and cleaned
His catch by the grey weathered fence that dips
Into the river. Thin as pine he leaned
Again, to rinse the knife in chilling rips.