The dog interrupts my writing.
She needs to go outside.
We stand at the top of the hill,
behind our house,
overlooking Cave Creek.
A little boy runs along the opposite bank,
a net in his hand,
his eyes downcast,
following the minnows
that dart, and weave, and tease.
I remember my son, now 15,
years ago on his birthday,
a net in one hand, a bucket in the other.
New rubber boots calf deep in clear water,
creating a detour for Cave Creek's minnows.
A crow brags from the tree behind me,
interrupting my remembering.
Some shiny treasure in his beak glitters in the sun.
The dog barks, and I turn back.
The boy is gone, already around the bend...
or lost; wherever little boys go
when they outgrow their fishing nets
and rubber boots.
When splashing through the silver ripples
is no longer their favorite way to spend a summer day.