Life on a River – poem
(This poem is a work in progress. Not quite finished, but then when is anything finished? Anyway, this is not the Mona Lisa and I’m not Da Vinci: I don’t intend to carry it with me and work on it everyday until I die, then people can see it.)
And the law of the river is simple
and even and fair for all
Live and let live is the first one
take what you need, that is all.
But it’s not what you get that is getting,
It’s the getting when the getting is good
And late afternoon in the river
Is when most getters, get in the mood.
And there’s never a want of excitement,
any sense of tranquility is only pretend.
If things are not moving they’re stirring,
full moon, no moon, dark and starry night, hey,
it’s all the same, broad daylight or overcast grey.
A river—always moving and flowing, in motion,
an occasional typhoon or tsunami,
enough reason for any commotion.
But the time with the least goings-on
is when it’s dark and a day’s on the brink,
at best a few ticks before dawn.
Each morning, early, in fact at first light,
the river is waking yet quiet, just about right,
the ripples the size of a flea bite.
A time when no noise can be heard, and all is perfectly still,
then a far-away splash, a small gurgle, a faint trill.
Sounds are few and far between, it’s not a long list.
And just like that, the birds come out of the mist.
It’s easy to tell who spent the night in the water,
the pelicans for one, floating by—too early for any one otter.
They’re not waiting to feed until they see the sun,
for them, the only getting that’s good
is the getting that’s done.
And to do any fishing, they just drift calmly by.
Falling tide, rising tide, it doesn’t seem to matter,
to them, any tide will provide.
At the water’s edge, the sun bathing red-legged cormorants stand
one by one, and totally still on a post or on land,
wings outstretched, all facing one way,
one would think they’re practicing bird-Zen.
What they are doing is waiting for warmth,
and the sun to come out and dry at least one feather,
and if not the sun, then the wind from the north.
So much here depends on the weather.
Not pelicans—they wait for no one and no thing.
Always gabbing and yarning and swarming in packs,
then their heads dip way down, their tails way up,
and come up with a fish. It’s not luck . . .
Their gullets a-gulping. It’s like a big sack.
And like most things in life,
there’s those that don’t get along,
the ones that create all the rancor and strife.
One way or the other, they just don’t belong . . .
The pelicans could tell those where sea lions out there
and sea lions to them are fools who don’t play by the rules,
so they were not amused.
The sea lions you see mostly waste away the day, and play,
and are so confused.
They roll around and just want a free meal
and are willing to steal every bit as much as a seal.
The pelicans were mad and wished that for once they could
hire an electric eel, and train it, teach it, and turn it loose
and give the sea lions a shock and a goose.
Then see how they like it and feel.
Before long, the sky was full of common squawking sea gulls,
that came out of nowhere with only one goal – beware,
they want it all, and don’t like to share,
all the while fighting with more delicate and fancy terns,
like they hadn’t a crummy crumb or a morsel to spare.
The penguins meanwhile raced in and out, slick as butter,
circling amongst them and sliding between them – not even a flutter.
Leaving many to ask: where is the motor that makes them run?
The answer is that other than a heart like a turbine, there is none.
And who was the last that saw you fly?
The sea lions . . . they have a quick eye.
And how does it feel to fly so high?
Silly, penguins don’t fly high, they fly deep,
Goodbye
The kingfisher wished they would all go away.
With all of this waltzing and playing and complaining and
squawking and fussing the fish would all go someplace else—
why stay?
He shook his head and went on a routine patrol.
Better he figured than put up with this brawl.
Then he saw a pretty kingfisher gal.
He forgot to look ahead and almost ran into a wall.
“Who me?” he asked, “this is a perfect spot;
it’s safe.”
Why take a risk and go anywhere at all?
On a hole up a tree, if you know where to look,
an owl you can see.
She’s smart as only an owl can be.
She’s looking, listening, thinking, always blinking,
then planning her every next move.
She saw the kingfisher barely miss the wall,
then saw the kingfisher gal winking.
All turned out well – a close call.
She could guess and approved of the pelican’s intentions;
an electric eel? What a neat invention!
A person that knows, knows that a healthy river
has a big bug over-population,
and for all bugs out and about on the river,
water is their home and salvation.
Damsel flies, dragon flies,
may flies among the many flies, some with sharp needles,
and june bugs, and big eyed looking bugs,
not to mention the horse flies, and fun loving beetles.
They were all there, and sometimes so many,
you’d think you could get twenty for less than a penny.
And who knew which one was the first to strike,
and sneak up stealth like, and take a bite.
Mosquitoes all said the katydids did and they didn’t.
Wait, is that right?
Nearby, the black-necked swans had a better idea
It was so peaceful one would think, Ave Maria!
So, they swam about in a shallow lagoon
And preferred not wait for any full moon
Instead, they paired up as in two by two
they were not many – only a few
and went round and round with elegance and grace
and swam at ease, as if with nothing to do – in a daze
And they looked at each other all proper and prim,
They’re not hungry but in love and full to the brim.
The sea lions wandered is everyone mad?
it‘s all bogus, look at those swans, they don’t care,
they’re not making a fuzz.
They’re in love just like us.
The swans all the while admired their long and curved necks
Their beautiful shape, and black and white feathers,
their dance was a waltz, and fairly complex
that’s the best way a good image projects.
They quit dancing to admire each other, and circled in bliss
those colors, what feathers, each one in its place, nothing amiss.
Come noon the sea lion would wonder:
If the river water was as warm as road yonder?
And if so he would stay and if not he would go
and laid down on the warm asphalt road.
And blocked all that traffic, but no matter,
no problem with not being aquatic . . .
He didn’t care; he was almost big as an attic.
Afternoon in the river, and it could go one of so many ways
the wind could show up and cancel the sun’s warmest rays
the clouds could all gather and grow, and then it could rain
And it could be winter – when anything goes, that was plain.
Later, the trout would all rise in the evening haze
And the river would muffle a gurgle before the very last rays
And plead . . . “Please Señor fish, get these bugs off my beautiful face.”
And then there’s the mud hens
And who cares about them’s?
To be continued . . .
mt