Panning the Narrows
Under a crescent moon, the fish sleep in their pockets
of excess expectancy. Far be it from me to interrupt.
The stove is lit, but the cadenza is elsewhere
at this hour. Tomorrow a fresh bluster will arrange
itself around the picnic tables. There’s a rumor
afoot, something about how ancient coins
pave the river bottom north of the Straits.
We’ve never been able to get enough divas involved
in the resurrection of artifacts, much less
their publication at book fairs. After a while
it will dawn on someone to finalize each
backward step before proceeding. Until then,
we’re stuck with traditional leaps and boundaries.
How did we get so addicted to getting somewhere
on our own and finding ourselves in the open
without a pot or a paddle? Too bad, when
it could have been different with a little tinsel
and some hard liners in the mix. And now
there’s barely enough sorghum left in the sink
holes on the delta to feed the sure-footed swans.