Tommy at stern, Johnny or I paddle
bow. The river forks to Mine Creek
where algae-capped turtles spot us & dimple
under. The bridge’s arch sinks deep
& comes back around — slow ripples
sweep the circle. Every day of the week
a river run, one kid in the middle.
Summer heat, thick woods, weeds
whir with grasshoppers second fiddle
to hairy woodpeckers hammering trees.
If we do (but we don’t) cut the babble
we sometimes spy a white-tailed deer.
Today the time, canoe, & dear Tommy
are long gone. The river — it’s still clear.
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