These Hazy Days

Beauty of the Bitterroot

My dress is light

and fraying at the hem,

and my hair has begun to dry.

In my peripheral I see the brown

ringlets stir against my shoulders,

and below my gaze flows the

water of the beauteous

Bitterroot River.

The water is amber against

this part of the bank;

the stones at the

bottom of the bed

glint like pennies flung there

by some careless goddess's hand

many yellowed years ago.

The current here is less raucous

than its upstream counterpart,

and I imagine the fish love it

—although I have yet to see

a single salmon, trout, or carp.

On the low bank, I rest

amidst roots and grasses—

not as comfortable as stone—

but all around me, green things

shiver under the sun's gentle stroking comb.

As I examine the chutes of grass

I see a sight I find quite grim—

many crickets cling lifelessly

to the blades, as if frozen for

eternity in a tug-of-war

they couldn't win.

They're only shells of joints

and armor now, and the wet black

eyes are missing from their sockets.

Is this simply the way of the river?

Did it catch the crickets unaware?

Or did it spill by as they died,

without any idea or care?

I turn away from the puzzling

insect extinction site

and let my eyes run back

to the river's copper light.

On the far side of the bank,

I see two young American dippers

bouncing up and down in play—

rhythmically bobbing on the rocks

in perfect synchrony.

I wade into the water, fraying

dress and all, bothered not

by the pleasant cold, but

rather by an aching desire

that'd sound silly if I told.

My aching comes from the wish

to submerge my body fully, to

be a fish, to swim in there,

to be completely free—

to have no pressing cares

except the occasional threat

of the osprey who wants

to eat me.