The commonness of this. Old
friends, fishing, breakfasting—
eating their catch. Like all
A campfire, an old friend.
Breakfast is ready. Bring
some more fish with you. Fresh fish.
It’s morning on the lake.
I have known a few such mornings.
Lassen. Nippissing. Alpine meadow.
Deschutes. Shasta. Ocean. Mist rising.
Sound of early bird song, splashing trout,
ripples. Coffee perking. Baconpotatoesfish.
The world slowly forming around me. Old
friends quiet around the fire. Smiling.
“Come and eat breakfast.” This one, on
the beach, on all the beaches of the world,
always inviting us to the table, a table,
The table, a fire, a feast. A meal. Such simple
Pleasure. Elemental. Companionable.
The one on the beach enjoys
another last meal. He cooks. He serves.
He asks, “Do you love me?” These men,
fresh from the lake, fishermen; he loves them.
Chooses in the expanding cosmicness of
who he was, is, is to be
to breakfast with friends
on the beach in the morning of his last days.