Thinking back, I remember you best
resting on the pebbled beach of Luvlie Geavhta
with a net needle in your hand,
seine spilling over your knees,
back twisted and hands like butterflies
across the water.
You taught me once,
each movement of the arctic charr
as they tangled themselves in what you’d made
and thrown like clouds descending over the lake,
and I grew up and forgot it all.