I sit on the splintered bench where the trail drops close to the river’s edge, one boot untied, laces dark from morning grass.
The wood pricks through my jeans only when I swing my legs so I have to choose between comfort and carefree— the mosquito zigzagging around my wrist reminds me to slow down.
Below me, water folds over stone, slides around a half-sunken branch, catches for a second on something I cannot see, then keeps moving.
A world within a world within a world. Each with its own beginning, middle, and end.
I rest my elbows on my knees and watch cottonwood seeds land on the surface, play Russian roulette with the current and sometimes lose.
But sometimes they win.
There used to be an island here but now only swimming for fish and food for one crane whose beak was made for moments like this.
Across the bank, a sycamore leans like a dancer— if I tried that move I might hurt myself. But the sycamore— graceful, roots half exposed, holding a wall of mud through another season of rain.
What happens here at night? Does the dancer feel lonely?
I run my thumb along the groove someone carved into the bench years before I found it. There used to be a heart scribbled here. Was it time or circumstance that rubbed it away?
Where do all the lovers go who leave their hearts on benches in trees and in one another's hands?
The river keeps carrying branches, leaves, foam, the occasional flash of silver,
and twenty feet downstream a man in a fishing boat has a pole for an arm, a hat for eyes, and a dream I cannot see—
I stay on the splintered bench swinging my legs watching the sunlight
Iris Lennox 