I scan the tree line,
look at maples, evergreens,
whatever finds its way to the right of
way: A rabbit and a dishwasher.
Beyond the right of way, I walk to
a meadow. A girl, a boy, and a dog
are running in the flowering meadow.
I follow the children to the river, balance
on slathered rocks. Alone, I
follow the river for hours—
past each waterfall, each tributary,
past the place where we used to float
our inner tubes around a bend. I go on
to where the river enters the thicket.
Dead fish rot there. Pepsi and beer cans
rust among the weeds on the shore.
Helen Losse is a poet, free lance writer, and Poetry Editor of The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. Her recent poetry publications include Ann Arbor Review, Lily, Ghoti, Right Hand Pointing, and Blue Fifth Review. She has two chapbooks, Gathering the Broken Pieces, available from FootHills Publishing and Paper Snowflakes, available from Southern Hum Press.