Halfway North

There is a tiny garter snake

coiled in a slat on the dock

where the flood laid down a tangle of grass;

when I pass by it darts up and glides across the boards

and falls dramatically, comically, into the reeds.

From my paddle board the river is glassine,

the setting sun’s reflection

a smooth orange button that bobs on the surface

to keep the river in place.

Annoyed,

water bugs work to unzip the river’s frock, here, here, and here –

so the night can arise.

But not yet – now a bald eagle rises from the shore,

leaving a half-eaten carp belly-up and heaving in the water

where a snapping turtle tears flesh from bone from below.

Neither the turtle nor the eagle give their ground,

dismissing me as I glide by,

the river suddently black as night

under my feet.