“Fatherhood” by Nicholas Trandahl
Higher up
the glacier-hewn valley,
she fishes for cutthroat.
I watch from a boulder.
An elk’s faint hymn
cascades like meltwater
from Pan’s lofty ramparts.
We share almond butter,
talk of other lakes—
higher lakes where I
will one day take her,
places I will hand to her
like consecrated waters,
and I will tell her,
These are yours now.
But not today—
not today.
Storm clouds gather
over summits and snowfields.
Alpine rain forces us
back down to the creek.
We cross the cold current
from one realm to another,
descend the stone path
out of the wilderness,
into wild lupine meadows,
to dirt roads
descending
toward home.