The Syllabus: Yellow River
Photo by Vadim Sadovski on Unsplash
A Poem by Casey Dwyer
The hills drive heavy ruts into the mist,
bowl it in their hands
molding the milky clay. Foamy cud catching morning sun.
Beneath, we are here
in the thick river sweat
time free, unknowing. Birdsong wakes us up:
the water-dripping cowbird
the cardinal, the mourning dove
woodpeckers splinting the pine trees.
Pulled out of our tents,
we gather silently to form the morning fire. Sopping wet coals
groggy from their soaking sleep
give warmth only when forced. But it is cold, echoing cold
other-age cold, fire-only cold. So we lean in close, blow hard
and watch as flame comes flying out. We warm our booted feet
against the old iron fire ring
and wait for the percolator to wipe the night from our eyes.
How long passes? We don’t know
until the hollow smoke begins to clear
and the valley lights up with amber
dew drops, shoulder-high prairie flowers
shuddering with waking deer. Limestone cliffs with clinging moss
hold close the bats, who crawl in
and sleep heavy, stuffed to the gills with gnats.
If you listen now, listen now
as the first wind off the Mississippi comes through
and locusts, willows, burr-oaks, ash
shed the dew like rain…If you listen.
