The River

The River

There’s a stretch of river in a quiet place,
tucked between a stony cliff and wooded pass.
Where I fish for trout, watching water embrace
Blue Herons, plucking tadpoles from river grass.

White frothy water cools the smooth, brown bed stone,
its eddies whirl, then rest in a calm, clear pool.
Beneath where a willow’s pink blossoms have grown,
as I sit casting from within shaded cool.

Here the river shares colors of life with me.
This is where the eagle hunts, where wood ducks drift,
and a woodchuck’s den, by a red maple tree,
shields a shy, careful doe, sipping its cold gift.

And in the mirrored pool beneath the willow,
I watch spreading ripples left by the shale stone
I skipped, my reflection disturbed, but I know
the old river will never leave me alone.

And if I shut my eyes, and then listen close
to the birds, cicadas, and the summer breeze,
ruffling green oak leaves, I can hear the ghosts
of those who came to share what the river sees.

Perhaps that is the most special thing of all.
From this blessed brook's bank I’ll never have to leave.
Because the river’s song hails my spirit’s call.
Others will come to see what I now perceive.

- Christopher Harris