She sorta sat back into her hips and let her eyes at it

The door was open and Plainfield was busy that day

It sat there, propped against the wall and I wondered if it felt embarrassed with all of the eyes 

A few artists names just fell out of her mouth 

like cuss words might on a sailor 

Like artist names might from a curator

It didn’t bother me 

Because I knew all of their names well

And felt quite professional being compared to them 

Her hair was flipping out everywhere, a section shaved underneath and her hands were dirty 

But it didn’t matter 

Because she saw it 

—What I was saying 

It might be today 

—The last day

What a rare gift to wake up 

Like he may not 

To be able to be given another day to make the world better 

If we can 

I forget too often that each breath is in fact 

A present 

And too often it takes someone dying for me to remember how incredibly grateful I am to be breathing 

Today 

I folded the earth 

It was over top of the bulbs 

Tulips and anemones 

Next to the dahlia and the peony bush 

Sometimes the best things take such long extended preparation 

And dirt under the nails 

The fire he built inside felt like winter 

It was so warm and alive 

Much like the deep part i uncovered 

There where i found a worm, thriving 

Hidden down below where the earth still felt warm

“I LOVE YOU” I scream from the shore 

It carried out onto the river 

“I have 30% battery,” he says back, and I hear everything. 

“BUT I LOVE YOU” I scream back. 

“I love you too.” He says, as he checks his phone for service, battery, switching it back to airplane mode. 

I think men and women are very different. 

Hooking up the trailer to the Jeep, he left the heat running for me with the door open, my emergency lights on, and 80’s music on high. His favorite. He always turns up the radio when it’s a song from the 80’s. Usually it’s too loud for me but he dances to it and I let him until I can’t handle it anymore. 

I picture him On the pontoon, the rain falling over him and his bright colored beanie, the engine faltering like it does, with his paddle in hand just in case

I drive the Jeep with the trailer over the The speed bumps past the skater boys skating in the rain into the park where the boat launch is. 

It is November and we are procrastinators. 

There are ducks there 

And one steamy beige car with two men smoking

Max calls me twice on the way to find my location and drops me a pin and texts. It is all within 10 minutes. He instructs me on “how to maneuver the trailer.”

I maneuver the trailer just fine, thank you. I’m doing great. 

We live on the river. He climbs from the pontoon knee deep, his eyes focused on the job. He does tell me that I did a great job maneuvering the trailer and I accept the compliment. I think I surprise him a lot actually. 

He climbs out, hair wild and mustang like I like it. He is really quite handsome. I remember how much I like him. 

He takes off his boots which are full of river water (I empty them and tuck them under the heater in the car) and he climbs around in his black socks; he checks some things, soaked to his knees. Getting all of it adjusted, putting the anchor in a safe location,  handing me his wet socks, he finishes barefoot. 

“Yeehaw,” he says, climbing in, content. 

We park the damn thing and it takes forever. I’m annoyed if I’m honest. It’s raining and I’m trying to help & I’m cold. Sometimes he tells me how to direct him and I hate all these things. I want to complain. 

I feel the spirit suggest that I simply thank him. 

And so I do. 

And the rest of the afternoon carries on just fine. 

The wool jacket looks like his skin, worn in like it was of daily use. It was black, heavy like felt, heavy like the expression on his face. His shoes were leather, polished of course and his hat was sharp as if it had been ironed. Well fitted, well cared for, and if he did not own many things, and as if each thing fit perfectly in a box. 

As I exited the coffee shop, I began writing this. I noticed the way he looked up at me, the look was through me—as if I too was part of the book he was writing on millennials and their new dangled ways. 

I saw an old man there, but also a little boy; mixed with a little fear mixed with a bright mind like a tulip. His apartment, though dusted was probably carpeted in books with little articles taped to the walls that he felt were relevant. 

 He seemed like the kind of man that if he saw Blue Heron he wouldn’t really see a Blue Heron, he would see an essay or an Ode to the river. And I️ very much liked that. 

What wonder! what incredible opportunity! 

Another day to live and love the world!

When you scream something 

Over and over louder and louder 

It is obvious 

You dont believe it yet. 

Fishing is a silent sport 

We pass them, 

There is a brief nod of acknowledgement as they turn their reel 

I cannot tell if it is respect in their nod, or if the silence is simply a language that says 

I fear you will scare the steelhead away 

There is nothing bright about the river

It is North

Dark

Sprinting with river weed and salmon 

Dead leaves 

The fishermans eyes gloss over, flirting their line across the skin of the water, reeling it in, repeat

Waders pulled up, thick like Tupperware 

Tight to their nipples 

Large like clown pants 

While we skim by like blue water bugs with paddles

I saw a blue heron plummet from her branch like a novice ballerina 

But watching her sprite forward into the sky on two wings 

Was enough really 

To make me love the river 

To tear something down is much

Much 

Faster 

Easier, even

Than to build something up