On one side of the fork in a bend on the Tuckasegee river, nine geese
sit in a loose “V”—the river is low and they’re close to the rocks—I
keep
counting the large grey-brown river rock a goose—want to make
an even ten—and I don’t want to confirm
what I know—why these Canada Geese sit bobbing
over inches of water and smooth stone on July 5—they dip, pop up,
formation unbroken even when families on red and blue tubes
and floaties glide past—one shakes its tail only slightly—Listen,
the signs aren’t good. I don’t need to type in keywords to know
Canada Geese shouldn’t be in a river bend off the Smokies
when it isn’t snowing in Ontario. But I too
have lingered on in seasons when I should have gone
and made myself a home
in shifting waters. The connecting “V” flips
under the surface completely—got to get cool, this heat
so sticky, so pressing—back upright again—black eyes on
the laughing, floating family headed downstream—
I take my sandals off at the bank, creep in—shallow water
spills over my toes—so cool—a dream, to linger.
All water rushing past, all patterns with it.
