One day, my dad, he woke me
In the middle of the night.
He shook me and he told me
That the time to fish was right.

So we crept on out the kitchen door
And walked down to the creek.
We sat along its muddy banks
And didn't need to speak.

Instead, we listened to the rush
Of water over stone
And waited for a bite upon
The lines that we had thrown.

Now, I'm not sure that anything
Got caught that summer's day,
And I don't care if I had trout
For breakfast, but I'll say

That the thing that matters most of all,
The thing we carried home,
Is the memory of us just
Watching water over stone.