before I get too lost in work, let me write this down (a poem for Tom)

it’s dark, and

i’m a bit fuzzy

on why I thought this was a good idea

the ground is spongy, wet, the air, warming

a friend asks me the significance of a line in a poem,

and i laugh, the meaning we attach, to words,

is the meaning we have built, out of the meaninglessness of our existence 

(no! the soul cries, I am significant!)

the winter still grips in spots (like the ice on the roots below the z channel boof).

we follow the tractor tracks, to where

massive wood has been shoved off to the side,

i can’t really tell why (maybe they want to keep it from getting in the canal?).

the showy grasses, garden escapes,

golden yellow in the sun, coming up under the clouds, for a moment brilliant, and

as i take a leak, i think,

what a madness is this, to stare fear in the face, and the cold.

it’s the rush of the river, through the trees, that is what? music to our ears? an ancestral fear of river folk

evoked at that sound, the sucking, rushing, gurgle of possible, certain death.

we strap in, and out on the river, a young bald eagle is out, a heron too, the river strong, 

but relatively unruffled, deep, flowing, fast.

though, we all can tell,

down there

a dinosaur lurks, the ancient river god, just waiting

to get yah.

at the takeout, we find a rusted rock screw almost a foot long, bent double, both ways, and

the willow chewed beaver stems, also twisted.

above, a foraging flock of woodpeckers, nuthatches, chickadees, 

flickers.