we float upon
an abandon canal,
listening
for the water slap
of the occasional carp.
where kingbirds
dart and feed
from mid-hanging branches.
the tow path
now an over grown trail that
deer and coyote ignore.
the clock tick of wave against the hull.
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history bending for little;
the keeping and talking
of things ceasing here
in unbelievable
finely scored near silence.
osprey cry and fall
cutting the mirror
of the canal’s surface
leaving with a fish,
leaving water rippled,
leaving feather.
and it will be all day
the hum and attack
of insect strafing and
we’ll only speak to navigate,
settling into an uneven pattern
with paddle.
it’s another life
to be floating.
a dirty yellow
canoe the method
by which we ignore
the dense differences
between air and water,
and awaken to
the quiet moments
full to the clues
of the immense life
that dwells in
small places.
