by John Grey.
Our canoe takes Spring in stride,
relishes the rush of new water.
In summer, we linger in
the grip of each river bend
but April streams are limbless, shapeless,
jerk us everywhere and nowhere.
The madcap current lifts us high.
Our oars flutter and flop like wings.
It drops us down into its belly,
sprays crazed volleys across the gunwale.
The roar in the ear
and the twitching cumulus for reference,
we never tire of fury’s feast.
A dozen white water miles,
our desperate balance
flirts with restless planes,
water above,
sky below.