Canoeing the Edisto

Slipped like a turtle off a log

and skimmed down the Edisto--

water like coffee,

churning just a bit muddy--

maidenflies and dragonflies

the only other traffic--

breathing air threshed

through the river reeds,

fresher than the city breeze.

I laugh aloud

at silvery fish

darting skyward

and diving as neatly

as a pocketknife collapses

upon itself.

Wood ducks scare from the reeds

at paddles' splash,

a flash in the blue sky,

heedless flight;

they squawk like giggling girls

reeling in some silly fright.

Left behind among the arum

and lavender pickerelweed,

white spider lilies gleam

like pristine snowflakes at the river's edge.

For just a while

I dally through rice canals,

aged trunks* a silent reminder

that once a lively trade

was plied here.

Again upon the river main,

flushed with exertion

against a sudden headwind,

I seek shelter beneath two towering trees--

the cypress,

draped in Spanish moss like tinsel,

branches swaying in the wind.

I wish I too could rise like the cypress,

high above the river,

and call to the herons and egrets

and owls.

Too soon I have come full circle;

the beachhead is busy, peopled.

I'm tempted to glide past,

to return to the solitary quiet of the river.

But the Edisto will stay with me,

filed with memories of other rivers,

and mountains, and meadows

which I will cull

whenever life becomes

too real, too fast, or too crowded.

klsmith

River Gifts

As I knelt on the riverbank, rinsing the bowl in the icy, amber water, there flashed before me an image of other women who had performed this same ritual over the millennia of human existence. How simple an act to rinse a bowl. How little that matters truly changes. In that flash of insight, I connected with women past, present, and future. In a moment, all the hurly burly of present life was reduced to essentials.

I saw my friend tamping out the remaining coals of the campfire when I returned from the river, the last few wisps of fragrant smoke disappearing among the cypress and pine trees. Golden sunlight, the crisp, clean light of early morning, streamed through the leafless winter forest. One task remained in breaking camp--packing our belongings in the canoe for the trip home.

I am wistful that our trip along the Black River of South Carolina is winding toward its close. A last lazy pull of seven miles is all that separates us from the primordial and reconnects us to the twenty-first century. Scenery changes quickly on the river as we paddle from one topography to another. Not ten minutes into our excursion the close, solemn bluffs of the swamp transform to steep cliffs of exposed white marl layered against orange clay. Cypress trees by the water's edge and tall oaks and hickory trees along the upper cliffs yield a forest fragrance mixed with damp, brown leaves and green moss covering tree branches and rocks.

We paddle closer to examine the marl and see scallop shells and an ancient oyster bed preserved in the limestone. The river has eroded parts of the exposed marl, creating shelves that clearly indicate climatic conditions affecting the earth's layers. Once again, I sense the antiquity of our planet and my life seems a mere speck in its history.