At the Old Reservoir, and: Retreat

At the Old Reservoir

Blackbirds disappearin stands of cattail, flash ofred like hearts stampedon paper wings.You can see the linethat shows how highthe water used to rise.No one else is here.

Silence, sporadic birdcalls.

Chamisa and four-wingsaltbush choke the muddytrail—quick slitherof a string-thin garter snake. My breath sucked in, fearof snakes embedded inthe bones since childhood,my mother's rememberedpanic as the boatmanpounded and poundeda water moccasin coiledin the sloshing bottomof a canoe I bent to enter.

Later, we paddled underthe bridge where a mandisplayed the snake aboveour heads, limp bodydangling from his paddlelike a length of rubber hose.My heart swelled so muchI could hardly breathe,the world flaming and spinningas it sometimes does.I saw reptiles slidethrough grasses, twigsbend, petals dropfrom dogwood trees.We floated on the muddywater of the river, white sunsetting fires in my skull.

Retreat

Behind a closed door, a man lies for hourslistening to the hermetic worldof cells sloughing, whir of the body's constant work,the unbidden renewal.He will know death wellhaving rehearsed for years the giving up.

In the room dust settles silently on chairs.A spider spins its whisper of filamentfrom lamp to bookshelf.

The silence is a mirror of childhood—interminable quiet of days, vacantrooms, shadows against blank walls.Beyond the confines of this secluded room,this shell of echoes, handfuls of coloredpebbles gather on the ground:ferrous red, green, pink granite, obsidian.Mountains fill with the sharp scentof crushed pine needles, orange spurtsof paintbrush, columbine, monkshood's purpleheads bowed beside a stream.

In an empty house, the sleeper rises late,aware of an unseen order,knowing the adjustment of inanimate objects,the continual shift of metals, one bowlsettling into another,hum of glasses, a book closing its pages.Exhaustion drains like the absenceof embrace, a constant surrender.