Indian River - A Season’s Journey
For My Grandson

Mantle of yesterday’s leaves
ruffle Autumn’s breath,
swirl and eddy.
The sweep of my paddle
lies silent, at rest.

A heron, blue and stately
arrogant to all else
save his elegance,
looks through his river reeds.
The blade dips quietly
mallards fly quickly away
at the intrusion.

The leaves are dying,
so alive in their vibrance.
Shimmer of gold as a Beech
speaks to a Rowan so deeply red,
the sun is put to envy.

I bring you here grandchild,
to listen to my heart
and the river,
ripple away from a wooden blade,
drawn gently and slowly
with nature’s knowing.

Rainbow dreams upon your brow tonight.
Whispering leaves in the wind,
bring snowflakes that slowly melt away.
Journey awhile with me,
embrace Indian River
speaking to her heartbeat
in each drop of sweat
as we struggle upstream
against the current
into the wind,
breaking ourselves into the tedium
of unused muscles.

Its anger of history twists and turns
forcing us to feel her power
with our limbs and bodies.
So we come to know and be with her.
This is the way of Indian River
running through Mother Earth.

Pacing rapids,
knee deep in river’s grip,
the torrent threatens yellow canoe,
permitting small coups
of skill, courage
and a little luck.
We move with her rhythms.
River, forest, yellow canoe
are one leap of joy,
a peal of laughter ringing clear
through a silken forest
lit by a painted sky.

Then a rain lashed day.
Storm laden
sky falls in dense sheets of water
to dance in multitudes on the river.
Straining into the wind
to find a lee in the storm
by current’s edge close to shore.
Wet, strained, cold,
weary from undiminished rain,
there only to dance for us.

Tracing an osprey’s path
on the high river bluffs,
the rain came in torrents.
Too small a word
for a canoe filled with rainwater.
Paddling and bailing yellow canoe
raindrops dance their freedom.
Unremitting rain storm,
abating to mere downpour,
decreasing to heavy showers.
The respite of constant drizzle,
before a minor twister rushes the canoe.

The river denies us passage,
so we walk through sheltered forests
rather than meet Death by foolishness on Indian River.

Screams of wind through pines,
Shimmering aspens, gentle poplars
green - fresh spring green,
relief from the year round darkness of spruce and fir.
Twin pronged sheaths, their darker timbre
covets the fresh spring green of gentle poplars,
shimmering aspens.

We wander to find herbs,
trilliums in dense bush,
the shyness of spring violets
hiding midst wild strawberries.
Still unbodied with their small,
red summer promise.

The gift of each day on Indian River
arrives with evening wind.
Momentary stillness, quiet and soft
before snow settles on the camp fire
and the wind hurls us into away.
The elements reveal their majesty
to play our senses,
so we realize storm, snow,
wind and torrents are also gifts -
granted to our opening experience of wonder

Snow dusts our tent
reflecting the dying embers of the fire.
Geese call softly from a marsh
upstream from our sheltered camp.
They call before dawn
when we wake with cold hands, frosted breath.
Even silence is frozen
till the crackling fire and singing coffee pot
breaks through sunrise.

We remove all trace -
except our memories - before leaving.
Step lightly on the earth, with care
and leave this harsh beauty
for whoever else ventures
Indian River’s wild tenderness.

Enjoy each entry.
Partake of its passion
sitting in the open rain before the fire,
wrapped in oilskins
drawing experience through
every sense of being.
My back resting on yellow canoe.
- She supports me always -

Morning yellow canoe
drawing close to this silence,
eager to taste it,
Mighty River.
Lover of Indians, traffic, life,
now deserted, save for our yellow canoe.
I feel the paddle’s fibre
taut then release,
with swing of shoulder
reach of arm
tighten bicep. Reach, dip, pull, slow arc, pause, recover.
I hear the paddle sing
high pitched in tautness,
low toning in slow arc
of arm and shoulder reach.
A different song
to sound of water
cascading.
Different yet from raindrops dancing.
Changing symphony of nature’s orchestra.

The sun comes bursting through
thick, heavy haze.
Blinding us with contrast
to morning’s gray and cold.
Now our paddles sing
and yellow canoe leaps with new life.

Closing by a spit of land
a mighty flock of geese
rose massively into the sky.
Wheeling down river sky laden,
heavy wings beating down
until we passed beyond memory.

Following winds
swept us over rapids.
We sped sun dancing
past reaches of unsurpassing beauty
on this river.

That night too full of her
- Indian River -
to even walk in the forest
a little way.
I prepared a simple table in thy sight,
and the evening magic
passed to nightfall
ere we slept.

You are with me grandchild
As I remember seasons on this river.
Travel in my heart.
Feel my journey
with each morning dawn we breathe.

Yellow Canoe
Thirty Years of Indian Rivers