July 11 Wading the Platte Near Fort Kearney

July 11

Wading the Platte Near Fort Kearney

Catalpa, ash, Russian olive---

a salad bowl of an island

and two channels converging

beneath the bridge

where I plant my feet solidly

in silt.

The double channel digs at the

soft sand

under my soles, her wet

fingers

slicking the hair on my legs,

zealous as a woman

arranging her hair

before Sunday worship.

We used to lie in the shallows

when the Platte was low

and I was eleven at summer

camp.

Fourteen of us would lie naked,

with these same wet fingers

moving over our hairless eleven-

year-old bodies,

giving lessons on regeneration,

the movement that cuts the banks

building islands of sand,

to worry them away,

to build them back, one fluid

movement

emptying, refilling itself.

She continues to tug

at what is loose beneath me

to set me floating,

to carry me on down river

for worship.