From seedlings in spring to tall grasses in summer sun, we stand, scanning the lapping currents from our spot.
Clinging to trees, cicadas call out an endless shrill.
Water bugs mate and die while widow skimmers dance on the waves in bright light.
A turtle basks on a dead limb that’s caught in a root wad along the bank.
Your kayak floats downstream in our shadows.
As an eagle keeps watch from a lofty sycamore perch, a warm gust lifts and sways us on the shore, and we seem to wave as you pass by.
Your evening ride succumbs to rain.
The wind stirs up wakes for you to command as an Asian carp pounds into your boat.
The beaver makes it to shore before you in the storm.
The river bank is summer’s bed of sand, where you seek refuge.
In the bluster, we bear our seeds at water’s edge. They scatter like tiny, startled bees.
Our ravaged arms reach for the falling light at dusk.
The glassy river reflects our age as our colors fade.
Our stems bend as though thirsty for noon.
I revised this poem. The new version is ‘River Grass at Summer’s End’, which I put up in November 2019.
©Barbara Harris Leonhard, extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog
Image “Sunset on the Missouri River” ©Dierik Leonhard