A stream flows for a hundred yards
before joining the river.
Eight miles later
This river joins the sea
Which makes my stream
tidal
The water rising and falling multiple times a day.
The tides bend my brain
Trying to imagine rotating through
the bulge of water
Pulled by the moon
Trying to imagine the river flowing to sea
while at the same time flowing backwards to me.
What do the fish feel when the tide is high
When the tide is low?
Is the flow different at the surface
Then it is at the bottom?
I’ve tried to research this
But have not found satisfactory answers.
This I know:
The tides pull me.
I often find myself drawn to the bottom of my street
Just to check the tide
And I declare it to myself
With a firm inner voice,
As though confirming
My suspicion.
“Slack tide.”
“High tide.”
“As low as it goes.”
As if this has a bearing somehow
On my day.
As if it influences my actions,
Alters my path.
I think perhaps
I just like to know that I have seen it
As I like to know that I have seen the white-throated sparrow
The katydid
The mossy log.
To bear witness is my calling
My sacred moments of connection
When I can say,
“I was there, I was present, I have seen.”
Just as no man steps in the same river twice
This woman never sees the same stream twice.
My stream in my knowing
Is a layered composite
Of all my streams
All my high tides
Low tides
Slack tides.
All my kingfishers
Herons
Beavers
Bats.
All my sunsets
Snowfalls
Moon shadows.
Walking to my stream
To check the tide
Is a roll call
A way to ask the universe,
“Who is here?”
And a way to answer,
“I’m here, too. And I see you.”
