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In the dark before the sunrise, 

About 1958,

His hand upon my pillow, 

He says, “Son, let’s not be late.

Put the tackle box, the rods and reels

In the bed at the back of the truck.

The sun’s gonna shine and the weather’s fine

And I believe we’ll have good luck.”

Chorus:

So we ride the ragged Chevy 

Through the backroads past Lamar.

If you count the farms with beat-up barns, 

It’s really not that far.

Roll down the windows and nose the breeze 

As it blows from the Great Beyond.

Me and Dad’s going fishing 

In Uncle Carl’s farm pond.

Uncle Carl strolls out to greet us, 

Smelling like milking cows.

He says, “I’d like to join yuz, 

But it’s more than work allows.”

So we cross the road and hop the fence. 

“Keep an eye on that old bull.”

I smile to say, “I’m friendly,” 

And I call him Mad Abdul.

Chorus

In the hush of the morning hayfield,

Dew sparkles like broken glass,

I drop my line for catfish, 

And Dad casts his for bass.

The bobber starts a-bobbin’, 

I hear the buzzin’ of a dragonfly.

I’m thinkin’ ‘bout Abe Lincoln

And the fabric of the sky.

Chorus

Copyright © 2020 by Michael Kim Roos