Our river ran roughly that day,
Carrying our canoe over the rocks
That lay just under the water’s loam.
You’d wanted to stay home,
You felt feverish, foolish, and weak,
But it was my twentieth birthday.
So we went down the river that May,
The river high and wild, spring-swollen
And flowing very like our young lives.
What the river takes the river gives.
We finally floated stable under the stars,
Pulled up on a sandbar, bedded down,
And watched lightning lick the town
We knew lay over the knobby hills.
We smoked—innocently—a joint.
Back then nothing really had a point.
Today, we’re all angles, nothing but.
We’ve lost a lot, but mostly our flow,
That led us one wet May to go
Down our river very together, yet
Even then beginning our slow drifting.
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