river

we drove to an island
and followed the curves
writing to a boy who doesn’t 
care or know that 
the moss was growing 
so soft and thick on 
the concrete slope on 
the steep hip of the levee
we slid down, 
leaving paths

two girls with light hair 
long as egret feathers 
chased themselves down 
the sand, carrying 
sticks, shouting out 
a plan, trailing dad
and the baby,
far behind

perched alone
on a heavy white log 
I sang to the river
a song by John Prine
I sang to the sky 
Patsy Cline, the water 
so big that it stood 
still, the clouds so 
close that we 
couldn’t see

the osprey nested 
in the cottonwood branches 
rounded to hold 
the shape of a tire above 
a power line hum, the state 
bird’s small yellow belly 
dipped into a muddy 
pothole puddle as it played 
on the edge 
of the road

back to the bridge
we took the long way 
clockwise to the side 
the spring rows 
that people live by
were empty, 
so covered 
in grass.

Poem by Kristin Howe
Found Object Art by Marissa Leitch