Neil Shepard




Atchafalaya November

We quiet the motor,
loop rope around a cypress stump,
and drift in the pirogue.

Snowy egrets circle out at dawn,
widening the compass of the known,
feel in their wings the fall sun
tensing the arrow of flight.
They arc a final time and are gone
along the flyways.

So we keep circling
and wait till the world rhythms reach us.
Cottonmouth sunning on logs, coral snake
tucked in a tree-cleft, long shadow of gar
gliding below: something in their leisure,
their slowing natures gathering
the last blessings of sun,
cause us to come ashore.
Knee-deep in mud, we pass
between their poisons brightening the earth.

For a while, we are lost
and closer for having left the rest
of what we are, back there at the landing.
Here, the great oaks breathe our sorry exhalations
and give back to us the air purified of lament.
We hear each other’s heart as one ripple
in the fabric of fall leaves
and lift into the journey of dying with joy.
How long we go on dissembling our bodies,
with their notions of arms and legs, I can’t say,
but sooner or later, the sound of the highway,
rising on its pilings above the swamp, brings us back.

I notice your arms growing again from your shoulders,
your fingers budding out, feeling for your wallet.
Then, my arms and legs return.
I wind my watch. And we are back at the boat,
drifting in a dead-end inlet
while the fish jump for flies.
Our boat keeps bumping the cypress stump
saying reduce and reduce
again to this.

Soon we must give in
to the butterflies, like roses pinned to darkness,
landing on your hair and mine, give in
to the small tongues and tendrils 
of the world that prey on us
with such tenderness.
Then we will look North
and hear it coming,
and not be afraid.