Dawn unfurled under clouds glowing like embers
as I began my paddle up river, riding the tide's return.
I can't tell you of the sea, rolling infinitely
I can only tell you about what I know:
the rock and sand beach on either side,
the white pines scratching at the sky.
Propelled by one blade at a time
cutting into the water
salt and fresh combined
sometimes splashing up onto my hands
and dripping off my brow.
A heron watches with his crane neck
standing knee deep in the shallows
then with a honk of objection takes flight
on a river I cannot follow on.
I bend to my task, lean forward
reaching farther with each stroke
as I feel the push of the tide slackening.
Now it is my muscle and determination alone
that brings me deeper inland.
The poplar and oak mix with the pines
creeping closer to the narrowing channel.
They tower and crowd the sun,
which is now high over head.
This is slack tide:
the in-between moment of neither coming nor going.
I pause and let the boat come to a stop,
my paddle across my lap.
A barred owl has been watching me
from the shadows.
We are statues, he in the woods, I on the water.
Then I raise the paddle in salute.
I feel I am almost there
and I begin churning like a seated windmill.
The trees are marching past me
and the marshy grasses slide along
keeping time.
I roll and drag at the water, breathless
until I feel the pull of tide telling me time is up.
I pause for a moment, then keep pulling,
fighting to see what is behind one more bend.
Too soon, I chant. Too soon.
My paddle scoops sand from the bottom
and I see dark mud along the shore
where the water has receded.
I pause again, I see the heron at the next bend ahead
he cocks his eye at me.
I am drifting backwards now
but I meet his gaze and hold it for a time.
Soon it will be too shallow to paddle here
and if I linger, I will be stranded.
I turn my boat back
into the embrace of the river,
retracing my journey,
but now I try to engage with each rock
appreciate each leaf.
As the river widens I realize
I did not see the owl again.
I look over my shoulder
before I meet the sea -
The wire legged heron
is there watching me pass beyond.
Propelled by one blade at a time
cutting into the water
salt and fresh combined
sometimes splashing up onto my hands
and dripping off my brow.
A heron watches with his crane neck
standing knee deep in the shallows
then with a honk of objection takes flight
on a river I cannot follow on.
I bend to my task, lean forward
reaching farther with each stroke
as I feel the push of the tide slackening.
Now it is my muscle and determination alone
that brings me deeper inland.
The poplar and oak mix with the pines
creeping closer to the narrowing channel.
They tower and crowd the sun,
which is now high over head.
This is slack tide:
the in-between moment of neither coming nor going.
I pause and let the boat come to a stop,
my paddle across my lap.
A barred owl has been watching me
from the shadows.
We are statues, he in the woods, I on the water.
Then I raise the paddle in salute.
I feel I am almost there
and I begin churning like a seated windmill.
The trees are marching past me
and the marshy grasses slide along
keeping time.
I roll and drag at the water, breathless
until I feel the pull of tide telling me time is up.
I pause for a moment, then keep pulling,
fighting to see what is behind one more bend.
Too soon, I chant. Too soon.
My paddle scoops sand from the bottom
and I see dark mud along the shore
where the water has receded.
I pause again, I see the heron at the next bend ahead
he cocks his eye at me.
I am drifting backwards now
but I meet his gaze and hold it for a time.
Soon it will be too shallow to paddle here
and if I linger, I will be stranded.
I turn my boat back
into the embrace of the river,
retracing my journey,
but now I try to engage with each rock
appreciate each leaf.
As the river widens I realize
I did not see the owl again.
I look over my shoulder
before I meet the sea -
The wire legged heron
is there watching me pass beyond.
