Landlocked

By Dick Bentley

Twice a day
     the equilibrium shifts.
The tide runs up the bay
     into the river,
then the river runs out
     into the bay.
Twice a day
     birds rise and settle,
an osprey dangles
     in the swift wind.
Half asleep, I dream—
     or think I dream—of dairy cows,
dairy cows who used to graze on the salt grass
     of the submissive tidal flats. If time were like the tide,
we would surge into the future
     then rush back into the past
twice daily, with the present
     only the expectation or regret
of the equilibrium shifting,
     and if the river could type,
this is how it would sound:
     a soft rush and whisper of keys
on a flat surface,
     a current of brisk sighs.

 

Published October 2009