Scenes of Stillwater
I.
Water opens the ice
where sun softens the sheet
taut these long months
while currents wear from underneath:
a plume in darkness
rising up, pushed upward
by a stone
or a cribworks of stones—
boom islands set to harvest
timbers cut from the north.
North, where the ice locks
this world into stillness,
this expanse widening
and sweeping around ledge and bank
until the dam:
ice breaks into fragments,
water foams into shallows
like wild creatures set loose
and churning clouds of mist
into the expectant air
of spring.
II.
Ferns unfurl from soil,
these first few inches thawed at last:
first signs of green pushing through
leaf litter and winter’s debris.
I have seen one or two gatherers
walking along the river bank
to harvest fiddlehead into five-gallon pails;
bending and plucking, they fill each bucket
with spirals of green like tiny galaxies
folded into themselves,
bagged and sold by the pound
along the road where traffic
streams between the strip mall and fast food restaurants.
These ferns where I walk remain untouched:
each one uncurls in unison,
their rhythms unchanged
by moonrise and tides,
extending their reach
from ancient days:
each leaf divides the light,
each frond spreads
shadows beneath its canopy.
III.
Silver maples crowd banks of grass and silt,
their seeds and roots drawn to water;
the pulse of seasons wears into the shore,
tunneling creatures carve caves into the earth:
centuries of deposits washed away by floods and ice.
Along this western shore, maples have fallen:
island trees toppled into the water, others felled inland.
A tangle of roots rises as a wall: twists and curls woven
in a riot of desire to reach deeply into earth
and hold fast to life along this flow.
Roots bleached by sun
and gravel washed grey by rain:
this bas-relief etched by seasons.
IV.
Geese call and repeat as they wheel overhead,
wing feathers whistling above pines
as flocks circle upriver and back again.
Family groups have been practicing maneuvers,
training for their final run south.
Their aggregation grows as each day passes,
groups of four or six merging with other families,
males squawking and hissing until treaties
bring peace to their fleets.
One by one, geese drop to the river,
white breasts cresting waves, ripples circling out
and out from the splash they’ve made;
honks and barks echo between
strands of oaks and maples
until one settles into the reflection
of red and gold on the water:
this silence and stillness
of sky and river, a prelude
of their parting south.
V.
The island trees turn first—
maple-red and birch-yellow flickering
against blue sky,
the blue of autumn
a different shade than summer,
a deeper hue from winter.
The sun rests lower on the horizon,
tinting the water to a mercurial band
spreading along the banks:
the oak roots pulse with this message
of change and drain their leaves
to copper and yellow.
A strong wind shakes
a shower from these crowns
and blankets the ground:
twilight shapes these leaves
of gold and bronze
into a circle,
where we might stand,
hearts and hands entwined
to watch this season’s end
with the rising sun.
We have no need for
sacred oaths and chants
raised in chorus around a fire:
the stillness of the water,
the slanting of light,
the earth still unfrozen,
air sweetened with leaf rot—
these elements enclose enough
to fill the length of our days.
Todd McKinley has taught middle school English Language Arts since 1996 and currently attends the University of Maine as a doctoral student in Literacy Education. He shares his passion for writing with colleagues in the Maine Writing Project at the annual fall conference and summer writing retreat.