Pool, Drop, Pool

Oct 26 2019

You learn humility, running rivers.

Because the rapids are indifferent

and you, insignificant

in this vast boreal wilderness.

The water flowing, boiling, breaking

as it always has done,

the rocks fixed

as if anchored to earth's core.

Their polished surface

is a calendar of permanence,

the incomprehensible time

it took to burnish them smooth.

Like practised climbers

we do not come to conquer,

checking off mountaintops

as if we're keeping score.

Rather, we are here in a spirit of respect;

to experience our smallness,

to feel the privilege

of being in nature

instead of bettering her.

And to get a measure of our steel,

the way young men

have always tested themselves.

It was pool, drop, pool,

and drifting steadily down

in a flatwater stretch

I would lean back, paddle at rest,

and gaze out at the dark green forest

rising up on either side,

feeling content

to be in the moment

and wanting nothing more.

Because I was a middling paddler,

no first descents

through canyon walls,

no waterfalls

that turn to mist 
before they bottom out.

No quest

for the adrenaline junkie's heart-thumping thrill.

And while the river was oblivious

all I felt

was grateful to be there,

a flotilla of small plastic boats

in bright primary colours

going as the current goes.

Hot sun, and cool spray,

and how the sound of running water

seems to comfort the soul.

Yes, people have been lost

to the river gods,

kayak pinned

some gnarly drop.

Like Robin, my old friend

who lived mindfully and well

and never let age stop him,

but in the end

pushed his luck too long.

So now I am content

to sit on shore and watch,

leaning back, legs dangling

on this great sun-bathed rock

far

from any sign of man.

There are fewer rivers to run, these days,

fewer rapids

in which to play.

But the young still seek them out

and water still falls;

descending, as it must

in all its unstoppable power.