Eeeeeeee...
Eeeeeeee...
Cicadas.
("How do you spell ‘cicadas’?")
Eeeeeeee...
Eeeeeeee...
Cicadas.
("C-I-C-A-D-A-S.")
Their dizzy, high-pitched droning
drives us down the river
and blends with the sound of the dark, tea-colored water
descending the Wekiva.
Hummm...
Hummm...
Dragonflies.
("There’s one on my leg," says Adam.)
Hummm...
Hummm...
Dragonflies.
("Suddup and keep paddling, stupid.")
It lands on the nose of the canoe--
a sparkling bottle-green--
and purrs in the heat for a moment
before flying away.
Rushhhh...
Rushhhh...
The boat.
("Are we there yet?")
Rushhhh...
Rushhhh...
The boat.
("Almost! Stop complaining!")
The calm, red river measures fifty feet wide,
moving beneath us like a satin ribbon,
and the sun beats down on us
in the great, open space.
Splash...
Splash...
The water.
("Adam!" I cry.)
Spalsh...
Splash...
The water.
("What?! What?!")
Its ripples flash in the bright daylight
as the river continues its descent through Wekiva.
We are cold and wet. And I am angry.
The prick tipped the canoe.
("...I was hot, Bronwen. Sorry.")
Reason for writing:
My friend and I took a canoe trip a couple of weeks ago, and he did nothing but complain. (I made him pull us over a muddy log as payback, though, hehe.)
Birth sign: Virgo
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