The River
A love song for the Big Darby as it used to be.
I am the river.
I am bluegill and small-mouth bass, pumpkin seed and shiner,
hellgrammites and crawdads, water striders and dragonflies.
I am back eddies and quiet pools filled with swift, argent minnows
the opal eye of perfect shells, gleaming in the sand.
the opal eye of perfect shells, gleaming in the sand.
I am the phoebe and the hopping wren,
the silent regard of turtles and the deliberate trek of the snail.
the silent regard of turtles and the deliberate trek of the snail.
I am the smell of mud and rocks baking in the sun,
of fish scales and algae and something washed ashore.
I am the diamond flash of the bass that breaks the water,
the dapple that dances through the branches of the walnut tree.
I am the olive light as you glide beneath the rusting steel bridge,
and the slick rocks piled just so, to help you step across.
I am the song of many voices-
the roar of the cataract and the whisper of sandbars and muddy flats,
I chuckle as I twist around rocky bends.
I am the call of the kingfisher from the canopy
and the whistle of the heron’s glide on stately wings,
the scream of cicada and the whine of mosquito,
the echo of owl's cry on moonlit water.
I am the laughing voices of children splashing in the shallows,
the whoop and holler of teenagers floating old inner tubes downstream,
the silent fishermen in their canoe.
I am the sycamores, leaning freckled boles across the water
offering a perfect perch for a dreamer to sit and read.
I am the fan-dance of the willow branches trailing in the water
near the deep hole where the fish hide on hot afternoons.
I am hidden stumps and hanging branches decorated with bobbers of yellow and red,
dirt paths worn smooth by generations of bare feet,
calloused hands and fishing hooks in the brim of an old cap.
I am the spring flood, the boggy field, washed-out road and uprooted tree,
I am highway and highwayman,
life in perpetual motion,
untameable and unpredictable.
I am the constant, the lodestone, the landmark by which you find your way home.
I am Mother and maker, communion and destination.
I sing you to sleep with a song that is as old as life
and as new as the rising sun.
and as new as the rising sun.
I am the river.
Tracy Meisky is a poet, writer, singer, songwriter and all-around boat rocker from way back. Feel free to look around, but if you break it, you bought it.