The speaker remembers a childhood day at a river with family, when the whole world seemed settled. They arrive in grandpa's truck, the adults chat with local farmers about a strange story of the Devil appearing in a tree, and the children swim naked, sure that the older ones will look after the younger. Diving into the water feels like freedom, a choice about who to be and where to stay, with breath held as if time could be held too.
The last stanza shifts to the present. The speaker's creased fingers show how many years have passed, and the river is the only thing that still seems to trust them. They have gone back to the old cobbled path, but the date is hazy: "yesterday or last week," "a Sunday, perhaps." The mood is nostalgic and quietly sad. The warmth of the memory is sharp, but it sits beside the blur of the present, where there is less left to say.