Process

We were floating downstream for hours-

trees were falling all around us, the green

Oregon rains encased the boat's small shape

like a canopy of water, a scattering of seeds.

Fish leaped up to drink it,

worms became the earth's exotic eyes-

but what fears we had were of the land,

an island coming out of nowhere,

a scraping sound, the obstacle of our wake.

Yet when the river softened up its banks,

when we felt the shore's closure as a presence

to be avoided, we somehow enjoyed that lake

of lumber, the log jam, at last the letting go.