A blue jay cries, then settles into a pine.
A little creek flows in. I paddle upstream

where a wide raft of pollen dust lit with sun
makes its way toward me,

a great migration,
and I steer slowly alongside.

One silver thread glistens
as it flies over the water.

I think of how the river flows all day and night,
whether or not anyone hears it.

Always here, a place to go and just drift. . .

*

What feeds a river?

The Nashua –
say it slowly

with tongue tip at the roof of your mouth it begins

Na –

the way a spring presses against earth

parting the grains, opening
until the water flows –

shu –

feeding rivulet to stream to river.
Rain feeds it too,

wending winding widening
riffles carve each bank – slowly –

a –

for centuries.

*

All at once, as in a dream,
I would like to see every rivulet
and stream that feeds the river. . .

I'd swim deep underground
and dive between the tiniest roots
and leap from the insides of clouds. . .

Can you see how out of hand this might get,
and rapidly?

Sometimes the streams rise so high they lift the footbridges.

And I'd like to see the hunters and planters and fishermen,
and so many turtles sunning,
industrialists, mayors, men and women of all stripes. . .

blue gill, trout, whirligig, osprey and mink.

*

For a time, hundreds of fish lay on sludge that covered the river.
White bellies swarming with black flies.

*

When we moved to Groton our children had a game,
Marion explains,

as we crossed the river they tried to hold their noses
long enough to escape the smell.

They never could.

No matter how fast I drove.

*

Roy Johnson says, She has a way about her, Marion.
You can see people change their ideas right there
as she speaks.

Some of us thought, She's out of her mind.
But she had a look in her eye.

I've seen deer swim in the river.
You think those thin legs can't do anything.

Amazing, though,
how fast they can swim.

*

The other day I went swimming
off the boathouse dock –

and out in the river
I felt sudden cold springs along my legs

upsurge
of cold clean water

I hadn't thought the river had this life of its own.

Hidden sources mid river
fresh water rising

to replenish its flow.

*

And once, lying out under stars, very cold night
with the hardest work done at last

listening to the wind –
I felt the sensation of leaving my body –

and at one with everything

and everything had the same value
pebble – rock – person – river

for those moments

everything fit.
Nothing was left over.

*

At night, or along the highway, be still.
Listen.

A river flows through the world.

There are great rivers that feed the river
and there are little rivulets.

Everything fits.

All that matters is feeding the river.
Every small spring rising.

_______
  With thanks to Jean Rhys whose words are adapted in the final lines.