(in honor of Mary Oliver’s The Summer Day)
Gentle current just turned
my kayak half-circle
while I’ve tended these words
rather than my paddles.
Its determination is quixotic,
denies my intent to go upriver.
Water-soaked rotting grey log
sits half in, half out of the water.
Current persists on sending
my kayak back whence it came.
Log catches the bottom of my boat,
commands me to linger, for now.
Airplanes drone, motor boats roar, jet skis scream.
Already I have paddled past five bloated fish
Dead at the surface,
rainbow scales brilliant in the sun.
Is this some sinister sign?
A warning to rush home,
shower off the splashes of river
that have landed from my clumsy effort
at forward motion?
Yet there are the dragonflies.
One, an opaque white
with iridescence slight pink
(or was it blue?)
flitting into & out of view.
I have eyed what must be
gigantic ones in the distance.
I call out an invitation to come closer.
Unheard,
misunderstood,
or silently declined,
None come close enough for my satisfaction.
A medium-sized one alighted
on the bough of the kayak,
All black: no vibrant colors catch my eye.
I nearly turn away, but then its wings flutter.
an intricate design, black and translucent.
Still there is the current.
Ever determined, insistently,
it has dislodged my kayak.
As I float downstream, I hear the faint murmur
of a triumphant laugh in the wake of the water.
I join in laughing, relieved the river still prevails.
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