We were floating downstream for hours-
trees were falling all around us, the green
Oregon rains encased the boat’s small shape
like a canopy of water, a scattering of seeds.
Fish leaped up to drink it,
worms became the earth’s exotic eyes-
but what fears we had were of the land,
an island coming out of nowhere,
a scraping sound, the obstacle of our wake.
Yet when the river softened up its banks,
when we felt the shore’s closure as a presence
to be avoided, we somehow enjoyed that lake
of lumber, the log jam, at last the letting go.
Process
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