by Diane Fahey
What is it about two fishermen
in a flat-bottomed boat at rest upon
crushed petals of pink, sky blue, crimson?
The sense of solitary communion
doubled, they make a small statement within
this metamorphosis, wild and serene.
Between tides, the river moves both ways,
is unzipped up the middle by the nose
and arcing black tail of a young seal, lost
or hunting, eddies like wings behind it.
I recall the noon scene missed by those
wordless philosophers — rays from a white
sun suffusing clouds, trees and houses
become mist; the flow tide stilled by light.
Last updated January 14, 2019