The boys and I were up well before dawn this morning to take their mom to the airport. We drove back in the early cold, stopping to get coffee, and I directed their attention to the methodical advance of light in the east. I saw the color and shadow over the abandoned grain elevators, their bases overgrown with rough weeds and rougher trash, and I was reminded of thousands of mornings in hundreds of places...

-over the battered, scarred bluffs in Gering, NE

-avatars of sun from over my shoulder, past the guides on my fishing pole to touch the surface of the poor, abused Caloosahatchee River

-through weariness and terrible sorrow, cajoling my failing car to find my Friend in Ames, IA

-from Omaha to the Northern Territories; unbroken prairie, wind and song

-bourgeois sun over bourgeois snow and a decidely un-bourgeois blown knee in Silverthorn, CO

-febrile with caffeine and exhaustion rolling into a party in Austin, TX

-light cold, pale and intense, and me mostly dead from altitude sickness at 17, 000 feet in the Andes

-innumerable bicycle rides through empty Omaha streets, shirt and tie in my backpack, wondering at my good fortune

-everyone but the horses asleep on Mike and Mary's farm inAberdeen, SD; I sneak to the lake in the early dark to catch a fat catfish not two feet from shore

-making insane love for hours with Jennifer on the big red couch...six years of want sated...She left at sunrise, the last time I saw her alive.

-down, down, forever down, via an old ramshackle bus with one headlight out, down at unsafe speeds on narrow mountain roads, my Friend wisely asleep from a Valium...racing the sunrise from Huaraz to the coastal city of Chiclayo.

-cowboy coffee, bracingly bitter, brewed in a saucepan over a butterfly camp stove in the Boundary Waters. Oyster Lake shines like a pure shard of the sun.

-eyes itchy and frustrated...driving back and forth between Squaw Lake and Deer River in the Chippewa National Forest, trying to find the goddamn turn to reach Campbell's Empty Bar

-my big brother Max and I leave the less-dedicated anglers wrapped in their blankets, and we throw buzzbaits and Hula Poppers into the weedbeds of Sand Lake

-Pembina, ND, and dawn falls like honeyed poison through the trees in the churchyard; even the sun fears the violence remembered here

-16, torn with love and sociopathy, pacing all night; morning finds me awake on my knees and hopeless in the absence of prayer

-stoned: really, really stoned and seven solid hours of video game football. Keyshawn Johnson had over 10,000 receiving yards

-a little light seeps through a gap in the blinds; Max and Will are only a few weeks old, tiny, curling aginst each other asleep on my chest

-men and boys from 10-50, playing soccer at the crack of dawn on a basketball court in Lima...an enormous staircase from Alejandro's flat to the beach below


...and sunset on that same stretch of Peruvian sand: my Friend and I standing together, but quite apart, looking out at the endless Pacific. The boys still sleep in the back seat in Omaha, but I am taken. I remember in my body that which I have never known, have always remembered. The ocean: ages of restless harmony and dissonance falling into me, briny and cold. Somwhere past brother and Friend, beyond lovers and sons...in the rhythmic depths is my undiscovered home...rest from this unbearable restlessness.