Poem

What Do You Know

The Blackwater River,
white foamed and clear,
ambles toward
Andover. Insistent
crows, demand on your own time,
I’m trying to fish, swoop into elm
and oak trees. Summer
morning and the river’s low
and the crows cry: the river’s flow
has slowed. Two boats barely
rock, anchored to a dock. And the brightness
reflected by water makes me
squint. A woman, her infant and carriage
push past me on the dirt path.
The baby calls
my name. No, no, no. Bending
to pick up a strand of grass
to chew, my knees buckle. Overcome
with dizziness, I grab for clouds,
and what do you know, I miss
and float away
over path, people, riverbank, trees, crows, boats and water
until I am sound asleep.