Just letting this small thing happen might be enough, just letting this little town, like a flickering star folded into the St. Joe Valley, keep on sleeping in its own peculiar peace wrenched hard in the failing light of a Saturday afternoon from the rest of the week.
And this before the trees begin to bud: the river high and cold, the trout elusive.
One man stands off to the side apart from the others, his lean face is flushed from a couple of beers. His boy’s beside him. Nothing remains of that bent night in day that he crawled from on Friday, aching and puffing dust.
Today he can stand and watch the lines curve out on the water, step back, reach into the cooler there by the pickup, lay a hand on the kid’s thin shoulder.
He can crack that can open anytime, suck it in, and feel okay.