Through the Rapids

He was present at the drowning.

In mud-spattered shorts,

he ran through the river brush,

crying wildly, "Help him! Help!"

An old woman in her apron

struggled to the water, tossed

a branch into the current.

He waded in and watched

a man in the churning middle

wrestle to save his brother.

But, having the advantage

of fading consciousness

and the strong, slick pull of rapids,

his brother kicked and won.

Later, when he waited

in his brother's truck,

he remembered the day's first catch,

unwrapped the fish and touched

unliving eyes still gleaming.

Brown trout flies in the tackle,

incorruptible,

dripped from the morning's use.

Smells of the river rose

and, souring, filled the cab.

Once the low willows bent

to the quick song of a bird.

He imagined that his brother

had climbed the river bank;

still whistling then, his brother

would soon start the truck and ask,

"All clear for take-off?"

                            The year

that he was nine, he said

he saw his brother wave

from the depths of a river spring.

He spoke of secret caverns

(currents dappling soft

green floors with filtered sun)

that only brave men entered

through the rapids.

Copyright © 1986 Marian Jane Dickinson