Return of the Shad: Part II

Early spring,

a Sunday, most likely,

the breeze,

a hardy blend,

of the snows,

in full retreat,

and thawing ground,

in imminent reveal.

You, Dad,

returning from the river,

with a smoked shad,

wrapped in brown paper,




We watched,

my memory has us silent,

as you carefully eased out,

succulent morsels,

delivering them

straight into our mouths.

As you fed us, Dad,

there were shad,


to where their lives began,

in the cold shallows,

in wooded glades,

their final act,

perpetuating life.

And now,

they speak of shad,

increasing in numbers,

still returning,

to their spawning grounds,

returning still,

into my bones,

settling deep,

perpetuating life,

their final act,

and Dad,

your enduring act.

DSC_0423Photo: Leigh Pumilia


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