Our fishing guide looked like Walt Whitman
But he was not Walt, of that I'm quite certain
He said almost nothing, as he'd gently rowed
There was a silence in his eyes that showed
He was very good, though, he did his job
Even if he appeared in some ways as odd
I really don't want to diminish his skills
He was good, his help brought us to fish
Took our limit, ate until bellies were full
His quiet presence and cries of seagulls
The world that we were leaving was old
Our guide had a presence somewhat cold
So in my mind I thought of him as Walt
Stories of the time added to the mental vault
Farewell Walt, hope you live forever
