110 The Meadow Meanwhile the River Susan Johnson River up to its neck in flotsam, uprooted trees against flagpoles, barrels against trees and still the melt runs so trails are brooks and brooks wash out roads. There’s summer in my hair, but winter’s still got my fingers. Still got these black-white mergansers back dropped by black-white river. Otter belly slides, slick rides, and here’s one periscoping, looking me right in the eye. Where do we go from here? Two Canadas bask on a beaver’s log cabin. I bet it’s dry and cozy in there, I say, thatched like a cottage on a moor surrounded by moat. Meanwhile the river all turbulent with run-off, silt and turmoil. Meanwhile the river surging deep in thought. It never gets old because it’s already old. At the marina, a truck load of boats arrives, leaning against each other like coffins.
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