Knowing

At the bend in the river,
watching the current

where you pulled me up once,
hands in the cold rush,
gravel cutting your feet.
You wouldn't let me thank you;
said I didn’t need to.

Old friends are like that.
Some people just fit,
like a favorite sweatshirt.
Not new, not glamorous,
but soft and comfortable,
and strong enough
to keep me warm.

Under the stars,
your truck idles low.
I lean against the fender,
you finish your beer, crush the can.
Not much to say; never needed much —
some things you just know.

Would I do the same for you?
Would I wade in, bare feet on gravel,
hands bloodied on jagged rocks,
to drag you back?

Don’t ask me that.
You already know.