Ice Out


the river is rushing by
a strong spring current
flushing the north woods
of its winter build-up 
of snow
ice
deer shit
and broken branches

this river tundra
which has held its own
for so long during
the lengthy winter months
as a transportation corridor 
for the deer herd
coyote
ski-doo
and occasional
back country skier
now feels the undercurrent
beneath it as spring overtakes
its reluctant bulk
and now immanent exit downstream

I look and a duck floats by
in wild fashion
riding the waves
quacking as he goes

Soon the canoers will follow suit on
sunny week-ends
with their plastic coolers
and six-packs of
aluminum beverage
and excited conversations
of their annual spring run
from Harvey Siding
to Russell Rock
hoping not to capsize
too often or too long

One year I remember sitting on the ice slabs alongside 
the riverbank watching the ice chunks go by, when I 
looked to my left and about fifteen feet away a beaver 
was sitting doing the same thing as me. He looked at me, 
I looked at him, and we both looked back at the river; calmly,
reflectively, knowing to the depths of our being it was 
not safe to be out there.

this year the ice was jammed for weeks at this spot
driving slabs on top and in-between each other
jagged edge to the sky
grinding bark off trees
standing too close to the action
crushing some in ice age fashion
splintered sticks in a moving ice landscape
the water rushes its way in and around the jags
creating mini waterfalls 
dramatic runs and
temporary water shows
free of charge 
to any onlookers
of the moment


I stand on the rope bridge
 
     rushing water
     roar of nature
     movement of spirit

drinking a hot cup of camp brew coffee
thinking of an old Grateful Dead song

easy wind
the river keeps on talking
but you never hear a word it says…
the river keeps on talking
the river keep on talking



                    April 18, 1998