OCTOBER MORNING ON THE POTOMAC

Sunday morning.

Woke to a chorus of birds;

flickers tapping rhythm on trees.

In the field beyond the woods,

Canada geese honking;

hound dogs yapping in unison.

I take my coffee and books

to the pier to read and write.

Only one boat on the river.

A fish jumps; there’s activity below.

Slight breeze stirs the windsock tails.

Pleasant morning; supposed to get hot later.

Summer’s last gasp—

not yet ready to leave for the season.

THOUGHTS WHILE SITTING ALONG THE LOWER POTOMAC

Wind and waves hold power here;

resolute action is tidal.

Fish and crabs know nothing

about the left and right sides of aisles;

partisanship exists only with regard to bait.

Rivers and creeks are the corridors

in which history is made;

measured in bushels, and in the size

of jimmies, rockfish, and blues,

and the ones that got away.

The only monuments here

are stacks of crabpots and

piles of oyster shells;

an old deadrise sunk in a creek.

Marble is reserved for the graves

of watermen when they no longer 
go out in boats at dawn.

There is tranquility here—

found on the river at dawn;

seen as an eagle circles out over the water;

felt when easing a hook out of the mouth

of a fish too small to keep.

We may think all that is important

lies upriver, along grand avenues;

in meeting rooms and marbled halls,

but everything flows in this direction;

the lower pulls down the higher;

the way overcomes from below.

SUNDAY MORNING: POTOMAC RIVER

Waves lap gently on shore,

rise and fall slow along the jetties.

River nearly flat, in contrast

to Saturday’s whitecaps.

Windsocks at end of pier hang down.

Heron presides from atop pole,

watches the river,

as do I (from the porch),

me waiting for fish,

he, for words.