Water after rain on White River
ran high over the one-man log bridge
and we couldn’t cross. My granddaughter,
disappointed, slept with her one-sided vision,
asking in the morning if the water
might have gone down.
It was the bridge gone,
and water running high
as we walked up river over stones
wrapping us in storm’s aftermath.
We carried our lunch in backpacks
until we found shelter among boulders
large enough to protect us from wind.
Both of us knew the storm’s terror,
and I envied her courage.
Storm had called on her early
to walk through danger.
What I folded into my sandwich
beside the river emerging
from the snout of the mountain’s glacier
comes up this morning from music
after a night-long confrontation
with grace, anger fully present,
holding back its bile.

Jim Bodeen
1 October 2013

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