"The Path Of Least Resistance Is What Makes The River Crooked"
after so much watching, so much complaining , not dipping my hands. her endless falling, folding over herself, her lanky legs and murmurs overpowered me.
never have I seen water so calm so sarcastic. her sly sneer looking down at me. winter keeping her crooked blue waistline from me, her moods shy and mercurial. never have I climbed her sharp shoulders or brushed cold cheeks and never would I have thought ice climbing would be such a beautiful way to travel by water
All year long my skin whitened under the burn of going without. -No travel in the most beautiful and aesthetic vehicle I know -no slap of wave against it’s hull -no satin surface to carve with the wood of paddle -no taste of that freedom only a river or lake affords -only obligations and responsibilities ate at any true sense of that freedom
until i went alone
the big boisterous sky ahead
under a hot mid-October sun
on a rocky outcropping
in a Thermarest with
a beer
and a smoke
above the lip of Lake Umbagog
my skin ripening
my legs crossed
the wave against rock
discussing their fears
of the weakening economy
the ignited hills above
gesturing towards the south
its orange airline traffic lights waving
the lone kayak passing by
complimenting the earth on her choice of weather
the tandem canoe in the distance clearly loafing in the sun
the bow adrift in no direction
the sequence skirt of the lake’s surface
showing off her goods
and my eyes when closed
were starry against the bright red
of that smoldering day
hot enough for a swim
Crooked Blue Line 
