Gliding past Van Campen

poplar breeze and sycamore—

fields, various and purple:

rich bergamot, loosestrife

the violet-colored clover—

I am a child—newly minted—

turning down a dirt road,

fields open colorfully—

an Amish clothesline in spring.

Once again, I’m powered

by Grape Crush

pedal past long grass

puddle and pool

through bower of barberry

—pray for absence of bear—

and where thickets cease

river wends.

Soon I find suspension

jade refreshment

sunlight and riffles

just me

as far as eye can see.

Later, some middle-age gents

come by in canoes

laughing—and for some reason

flying a Jolly Roger on a pole mast—

kind pirates

they see me swimming—wave,

but do not board my peace,

as fishermen appear

kindle fire on rocky beach—

watch me from Pennsylvania’s shore.

I observe them from a different state—

I am 10 once more:

grape soda, the bike ride

an impromptu swim—

men finding their boyhoods

fishing

flying the Jolly Roger—

as Huck once did.

The water swirls me

gently around

never really moving

upstream or down—

every river has such eddies

each body, soul.