Sitting on the rock dock, that was hauled here by horses long ago, I try to avoid dangling modifiers, escaped adjectives, the fishy river smell, the dreams of my cabin youth. Dragonflies in a mating dance strafe my upturned face, promising me a contemplative future, the expected narratives of cabin summers, the expectancy that a bald eagle will break my revery. Cold, iron-stained water covers my toes as I wade into the shallow water, avoiding jagged rocks and crayfish, heading for deeper pockets, floating between granite obstacles. I submerge my body deep in the cloistered, silent water, on the sandy river bed, imagining the walleyes swimming by my head, and rock bass ignoring my presence. I rest here, sloughing off the cares, finding my own private Bethlehem as Joan Didion might, in the less brackish deep. I hover.
