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.
First published in Literary Bohemian.
(The photo is of Montana, yes, but of Yellowtail Canyon, no.)