digital manipulation by ralph murre of photo by larry lemski
Notes
from Skinner’s Elbow
by
Michael Koehler
1.
The
wind never stops.
It
is tireless like the river
and
aloof.
The
wind sometimes talks to the ground,
two
hundred-year-old trees
shake
at such dire language.
The
moss crawls to the underside of boulders,
branches
bump each other like angry men shoving.
Other
times
it
whispers to the top branches
of
aspens,
trades
secrets like shy young girls
who
sit in the sun,
mouth
to ear.
The
wind can sound like a lullaby.
After
the sun dies
I
sleep in the arms of cedars.
When
the sun is reborn
the
first things I see are Kingfishers,
perched
two to a branch
all
up and down the river.
Their
diving for minnows is a gentle blue hailstorm.
One
time,
like
a nightmare,
I
heard the wind scream.
After
the lumbermen left
the
wind had no branches to rest on,
or
sing through.
The
wind became a gale,
furious,
blind with anger.
Defeated,
it left that part of the river.
Now
it visits once or twice a year,
finds
whatever it seeks,
comes
back stronger the next year.
2.
The
time comes to put away the reels,
the
rods, the tackle boxes.
There
comes a day when it gets too dark
for
hearts to intrude with hook and sinker.
A
time when the river says
You have enjoyed my
bounty.
Now you must listen to my
story.
The
deep grumble of the night river
glows
over the fire pit
where
oak and pine warm hearts.
So
terrible is the river’s tale
that
we might freeze to stone
if
unguarded by flame.
As
the moon swims through its bed of stars,
I
listen.
When
the story ends and light returns,
all
I have the courage to say is,
River, my friend,
I have no place to stand.
Between water and land is
a space
too insubstantial to hold
me,
knowing what I know.
My
brother tells me
the
quest may be for each heart alone
but
the journey can be shared.
3.
We
sit on the banks of the river
at
Skinner’s Elbow and play our flutes.
The
sun rises and blesses us,
who
have asked for nothing
but
another day to live, to love, to learn.
Because
our flutes sing songs from our hearts,
we
hear a question not meant for our ears;
a
question trees ask the wind, rain, and the shadows:
Have our Brothers
returned?
The
red squirrel says to the white pine,
They play strange songs.
The
raven says to the trillium,
They sing like mourners.
And
the wind says to the eagle,
Yes, but they have
learned their way here.
~
previously published in Notes from
Skinner’s Elbow
(Wolfsong Publications)
