American Dipper
The kind way of looking at it is that I was led
up the creek by the little songbird, skipping
from stone to stone like a tag-along brother,
eager to keep up, happy just to be
invited. Or maybe as a guest receiving the grand tour,
my host rushing, mind preoccupiedwith supper. This is the other way:
I stalked her and she fled
up that odd stretch of river
where it is difficult to tell without kicking,
what is a fallen branch shaved bare
by the sandpaper current and what is rusted
rebar so old it has forgottenits purpose. I know it.
It is there to remind me
and her that humans are hungry things—
wanting, wanting, wanting—
whether we feel our stomachs rumble or not.
Whether we are invited or not,
we are coming to dinner.
