A fish jumps from the water

For Mother’s Day, your partner’s mom wants to try out their new kayaks.
You (and everyone else in the county, apparently) go to Nolte State Park.
You carry your kayaks around picnics, frisbees, and dogs,
enter the water next to a man fishing from the shore.

A fish jumps from the water.

It’s quiet after you get a hundred feet away from the swimming area.
Anglers hike around the lake, station themselves on the trail’s offshoots.
You do your best to paddle around their lines.
Your partner’s dad tells you his uncle died.

A fish jumps from the water.

A couple floats on personal inner tubes,
drinks hard seltzer from a cooler on a leash. 
Some kids race on the edge of the swimming area.
A woman lounges on a large Lapras floaty.

A fish jumps from the water.

They tell you about how his uncle died,
the person who helped him in his last months,
the cousins who are already calling dibs 
on his possessions from across the country.

A fish jumps from the water.

A man sitting on a tree root
asks you which way you’re going,
so he can cast around you.
You point, apologize, start paddling.

A fish jumps from the water.

You get a lesson in executor responsibilities,
California gun laws, the history of a defunct airline.
They summarize their wills,
the lessons they’ve learned.

A fish jumps from the water.