the gift

I am still dancing with yesterday
when the river freshness rushed by upstream still a whisper
clouds reflected in this mirror just for my face, glowing down
fine dark sand oh the beautiful color of it
walnut and ash like my hair, lining the shore
that wide flat feather: a flag, a signal, a message
a gray gift— soft, unmarked.

It’s just me and that pair of birds
making twin tracks in the water surface
one diving with a splash, that
barely quivers a thousand oarsmen
waiting in the tiny bay beside my boot
for some mysterious order
their steps shimmer above the milky sediment
and the fry, each line dashes in snaps through shallows
heedlessly defiantly growing into future fat fish
A single tree at the bend flashes white in the wind.

It’s just me clambering up the stones
to the breathless dry September field
where grandma stands watch,
as she’s been for decades
her twisted trunk shadows soothe the tired earth.
to the hawk who cries and the jay who screeches
and that cricket who sings a midafternoon surprise solo
then back down the long cool road
where shaggy hemlock giants walk with fairy trees knee-height to them
wrapped and whirling with bright green hands all shown to the sky
in dresses of dry moss saved from spring
above the shining winding silver song of the Sandy.

and the parking lot is empty.