We will not say “sayonara” to you; we will not let go of the small, good things you taught us to love, like the sound of the river, the buzz of a fishline spinning out after a fat, freckled trout. Or cold, dark mornings when you lured us from sleep with a single, whispered word: “Yosemite.” Thoughts of the river, El Capitan, and lunch — another small, good thing— spurred us through the still night, the silent landscape of darkened houses where others slept and would wake to a common day; while we, through you, who made art from common clay, saw the sun rise.

We will not say goodbye tho’ the river darkens and the taut line goes slack. It was a good fight.

Now you are free; but we remain to watch the sun rise once again and to tell of the one that got away.

You are gone, and yet, we will not say “sayonara.”

“Merced River, late afternoon.” © R. A. Sasaki. All rights reserved.