Field Trip

My hand enfolds yours
As we stumble through the cold water
Bare feet shivering in rubber boots
Soles slipping on slick stones

We are not going to fall

We are here to catch mayflies and fish and crawdads
With nets and buckets

But we won't

Instead we'll find little blobs of jelly from snail eggs
Big stones encrusted with small clusters of sand
(these hide tiny larvae)
And slip on rocks covered with green slime
(this is alive too)

I will stand in clear shallow water and see nothing
A moment later, a child dips in a net and scoops up a fish

We won't catch big things, much as we try
But we will see
A crawdad growing back a lost claw
(I feel the splint on my wrist and can only laugh with envy)
Mayflies dancing on sunbeams before they die
(They have no mouths, so their ballet is their mating song)
Little things alive all around us
That I never notice
And that I'll probably forget again

But I won't forget the feel of your hand in mine
As we made it back across together