Field Trip

& the canoe tipped             & the kids fell in

one, waist-deep in duck waders, held out
a paddle so others could steady
as they righted & spat—

Oh, we were a tangle of peals & squeals & gangly limbs

            unfinished

& safe         still close to shore.



                        Sweet bird, don’t startle—stay
                        tall on your sun-soaked log
                        eyeing stillness
                                                        then kerfuffle



What rays gild a heron’s thoughts         what wilds bloom without?



A marsh has grass         a swamp has trees

both are wetlands & care not
what we name Land / what Water.



                                I can be like that. Land
                        ambivalent to shore
                        or the idea of shore;
                        I can carry sea
                        however far inland
                        life drops me
                                                & I can rise
                        like those birds
                        dipping, never tipping;
                        like spring, can usher
                        each new trickle
                        down from mountain
                        to rivulet, to crisp
                        fern, hosta, pine,
                        switchgrass—
                                what green itches each new earth in winter’s wake



Recall the thaw         the motor rumble of rain



how we held light
in our mouths & tried
to keep it