Shining, silver, flowing steadily by
Winding, rippling, turning through the woodland
A river reflects the color of sky
And fish swim past hot golden banks of sand

A man rests under the weeping willow
A baited fishing pole in his rough hands
A knot of bark is his make do pillow
And he watches the water cut the land

He mourns for the friend who used to sit near
Where no grass grows, a worn patch of red dirt
Right beside the old rusted fishing gear
She would sit back and continue knitting

But she would scold him for getting muddy
Never let him walk out without his tie
Never let him feed his dog named Buddy
Who died, his eyes wide open to the sky

Still, the old man cries, tears roll down his nose
But he dried his eyes, packed his gear, and rose