Under clouds, the Juniata River’s pewter,
pitted with eddies like an old mirror.
I’m slipping along
thinking of a person’s reflection
worn away. I don’t like to keep
saying good-bye, with all this moisture
and springtime. The churches are looking
upward and downward, but I am thinking of
how fast insects fly, how they create
their own vortex of air like a tiny tornado,
always on the verge of stalling out,
but they don’t, because the outer tip
of the wings moves faster and throws air off
the end. Very ingenious.
Horseflies can copulate
in the air at ninety miles per hour.
Probably things that seem mysterious
have simple explanations involving
engineering, luminous and metallic
as the Juniata. I drive alongside the river
almost to Harrisburg,
thinking now of huge gray catfish
underneath, mopping their whiskers
against the mud, creating their own map.
And then a line gets pulled, the fins open out
like kites, the mouth gapes like a huge
bottle opener! It may turn out to be nothing
up there but one small johnboat, a simple
period. But suppose that period
were an insect, with oars for wings
I wouldn’t want to leave for another world,
but keep on straight along this one,
that would turn out cleverly
to be everywhere I go.