Eel River Meditation
Above the Eel River,
a concrete bridge: every summer
we plied humid afternoons
with hickory bark canoes.Lying on the sloped bank
we paddled between
walnuts and hickories—
we were on the brinkof believing. The Eel
was clay-colored in July, and
familiar as salt,
solid as a Pontiac sedanalthough some nights,
when the frost-glass lamps
were lit and warm air was damp
it seemed we mightfind the bridge led
lightning bugs across water to
a stream of galaxies, sets
of blurred moons.While the crickets sang
their growing-the-corn-tall ballads,
some nights an aching rang,
liquid wrung from solidsand we, unsure of what to trust,
imagination or the tactile facts,
both embraced and pushed back.
Chose differently. Two of us.
Featured image: Untitled by Terry Priest. CC license.
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