On the Present and the Desires of Memory

  A pull towards fishing, singletrack, birds, breasts.  The moon always sipping these thoughts from you on the back porch. Fishing with your brothers when as far as you're concerned nobody else is on the same earth. Rolling against fast packed berms in high country wildflower fields while this years first coveys burst clear for the brush below. Your dog gaining your trust in matters of scent and location of things desirous to the both of you. Nibbling at ears that have been pierced since she would call boys "gross" and feeling her face squirm against your stubble.

These things trouble me.

A good sit is required to silently discuss any memory of catching them while they matter most.
They always matter most to me when I'm with them. If you could have all of them at once, your heart and head would split clean in four and you would never be able to use them properly again.  Don't dote in the past. Don't proselytize to the uninitiated for the sake of their future and yours. Don't ask questions. Don't look up to that moon or mumble aloud, there are no answers in those places. That giant raccoon that just ran across the top of the back fence has as many answers as you do.

You cannot best yourself by attempting to remain younger than you are at heart. 

All I know is the following: I love tall blondes with blue eyes who talk back when needed.  Game birds who hold till the smartest second, not the last.  Fish that don't need to be grip and grinned.  Bike rides so painful they make you wish you were dead before they're over. The look in my dogs eyes when she drops a bird in my hand.
And the fact I use this place as a sounding board to commit to a false memory all the simple things that have come to define the excitement in my voice.