Up stream. Clear tide. Beneath some low bushes is a silent river. Branches wave in the current. They call this river by a name. For many moments, the branches bend in the eddies, and the arm of the silent river turns towards itself. For many moments, the name of the river hangs in the air. Every few yards, bubbles appear on the surface, are filled with light, and disappear. At the shore, there is a dead silence, and then there are low voices. The voices are obscured somewhere below the ragged treetops. The rise of air. Somewhere under the ragged treetops is the growing sound of voices. Somewhere on the river, bark can be seen floating along with the current. The down stream current. The far down current, sinking again beneath the air. The current that swells and sinks and crashes against the rocks, echoing through the vaults of forest and the sweetness of nature. Still, there is breath. There are voices. In the caverns below there is air that rises up to meet those voices. But the voices are just sounds in the woods, sweeping through the branches. The air. The sparks. The flames. The smoke. The cool evening breeze sweeps along the surface of the river. Thunder rumbles beyond the distant hills. Any signal. Any water. Any alarm far down the current. Still, the air sinks into the caverns below and the voices sink too. What hazardous undertakings. What trusted intent. Which current glides towards fortune and which current turns treacherous. The river plunges into the ravine and the mist rises like smoke. For a few moments, the mist is the smoke before it falls back into the river. For a few moments, there is a plume of water crested by the light that cuts through the forest.
Empty Spaces 1
September 14, 2017
This poem “Empty Spaces 1” originally appeared in Indigenous Literature and the Arts of Comunity. Spec. issue of Canadian Literature 230-231 (Autumn/Winter 2016): 64.
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