The Conestoga River once embraced
me in its muscular spring swell,
eager to draw me downstream before
I knew what was happening, before
the risk registered. Saying nothing,
he reached in, took my hand,
and lifted me to the muddy bank.

It’s mostly a quiet river, even 
its rapids feel hushed 
as its water shushes
over rocky ledges.
Gray riverbed of schist
and the same sedimentary 
limestone making our soil fertile, 
giving Jet Star tomatoes their zest. 

The meanders are disorienting—
it can be impossible to get one’s
bearings—they bend over backwards
as they tango across the landscape.
The river might be in front of you, 
behind you, and also beside you.

The mystery of its journey is like 
the quiet of its breath, enjoying
itself for itself, freely mirroring
with no words necessary. Lately, 
we have been paddling upstream 
then drifting back to our starting point.