late March and the river is high.
Things happened that I could not
control. On my 24th birthday
my grandfather fell over and his
heart stopped beating. Meanwhile
the river rose and flooded the valley,
bringing swans and black American
mallards, a great blue heron
balanced on one leg.
They say the moon controls the tides
but God controls the river. I do not
know God, but sometimes I want
more than anything to be able to pray.
Embarrassed by mortality, I thought
more and more of where I am going,
who I will be.
In summer we floated the river.
All day I watched waxwings and
swallows and passed slowly. Perhaps
what I really want is to let the river
of my life rise and fall. I can be whatever
the season wants of me, whether
quiet swan or furtive swallow.
Things happen that I cannot control.
Late March, the river is high.