On the Wolf River in Wisconsin, 1976, 114 degrees,
a hot but calm me, floating downstream on a fat black inner-tube,
loving the way that water whitens over rocks, a lulling carbonation ,
when there’s a slow rush to froth and foam, and up ahead, what the,
is it a wild current perhaps — would they let us go there? —
maybe a plunge coming, a waterfall drop surprise, this suspense
of not knowing, then going over the edge, falling
onto some boulder, a reminder of the gravity of things,
or a deep pool of reflection on the sky, oh my,
to what great depths beneath, oh whoa, the flood of wonders —
and suddenly it’s cloudy, the heat rises, the rain drives needles
into my skin, but at least the water turns calm again, here,
where my dad worked a long time ago, a young man, like me,
shuttling tourists and inner-tubes back to the beginning upstream.
* * * * *
Today’s word is
rush
Use it to inspire a piece of writing and then post what you wrote as a comment below. I’d love to read it : )
