I wanted to share my poem, Yellowtail Canyon, but too bad I didn’t have photos from the times I spent there. Drifting in a small boat, in a deep canyon, watching a black bear along the narrow shore, under a berry bush, leisurely eating berries. We call that The Life, don’t we?
So I thought I would share a few photos from the web of the area (aka: lifting). But when I started googling photos of row boats, I discovered something about myself. I liked the photos of the sunken row boats better than the photos of unsunk row boats. Out of respect to all the artists and photographers who have shared their work on the internet, I am not lifting their photos to share here, but perhaps you will google them . . .? Google “row boats”. And then google “sunken row boats”. See what you might learn about your ownself.
Here’s my poem, which was first published The Literary Bohemian. If you don’t know this journal, take time to check it out. Yearn.
He takes us out in Harry’s rowboat. We dip
oars together, paddles clack, rainbows rip
the river. We drift into a hush- a black bear rolls
onto his back and shakes berries from a bush.
We trust in thunder to tell us it’s time to row
back towards the shore. Wet rope anchored
to the dry side of driftwood, shelter found-
our backs against a stone. A space blanket spread
over us, we tuck our feet in. He tells me how we can
listen to the inside of a star by sending out waves
of sound. We wonder if the sun can hear
the chatter of raccoons, magpies fighting in the pines,
rain falling on our hat brims, the groan
from our boat sinking in cold canyon water.
not a word
Above two photos courtesy of Stephen Taylor Photography.