Hall of Waters

He goes to the farthest stranger
who sits in the bow of a boat
moored to rotting wooden steps.
He stands beside the water so dark
its bottom begins on the surface,
and in it the boat and stranger
are upside down and don't care
if they survive the flooding
sky or the cloudy river.
One branch, then another, are thrown
into the air that breaks into circles,
and then a stone sinks through both.
When asked from where he has come,
he remembers only his footprints
on this stretch of dirty sand.
When asked why, he says he owns
little and is owned by less,
and anyway he walked.
Small emissaries of thunder pass
and sickle-winged birds scar
the far bank with hoarse cries
as they lead the next generation
of rain south. Cottonwoods tremble
with pleasure and light.
The stranger invites him to
sit down in the blush of evening
but someone calls, reminding
him of time and how far he has
to go, and he turns to ask if this is
the way, and recalls the ocean broken
inside him. He leaves the stranger
whose boat is already carelessly
rocking out into the clouds.

Hall of Waters
by Walter Bargen
© 2003 by Walter Bargen
(Published by Timberline Press, 2003)
Used with permission.