Early Mornings

Early Mornings

Annarose King

The blue herons fly out into the air

Above the river, beside the trees

That loom above the water,

Watchful green leaves rustling in the wind.

The two herons do not seem to notice us,

The rowers that have managed to paddle

Partway down the river,

In a lemon-yellow boat,

Eight of us all together,

And then one more student

And the assistant coach

In a boat nearby.

I was in the back, the bow,

And I had climbed out

Onto the waiting motorboat

So another student can take her turn

Gliding an oar against the water.

There are more rowers

Than twenty-one seats in three boats

So switching out comes into play.

The two herons float through the air.

Their wings are the color

Of the inside of a mussel shell,

Silvery-gray, and smooth blue at the edges.

I watch as they soar over us,

Towards the opposite bank,

Disappearing into the trees.

The river reminds me of the ocean today,

Waves small enough to splash the oars.

I can almost smell salt, an old tang

Hidden below the surface.

I keep hearing that

I should feel a connection to the river,

And sometimes when I move my oar

Smooth and easy through the water,

I do, and sometimes

When I stare into the water,

The river is so powerful

The boats are only travelers.

I sat in the bow yesterday too,

And I turned the boat around, on my own,

Moving my oar against the water

So the boat swung, and I found myself

With my back to the horizon.

Someone said to watch the sunrise

While we waited for the motorboat

To catch up to us.

I couldn’t see the sun, no one could

Unless we turned around.

I tried to look over my shoulder,

Not willing to twist fully,

And I could see

The soft orange blossoms

And the red light spreading

Over the sky and into the clouds,

Not entirely, but enough.

I glanced down, to the lapping water,

And the sunrise was there,

Held in the ripples, a loose red.

Twenty-four hours later,

I watch the blue herons,

And think about how they work

Together, flying behind each other.

One of the herons has a hole

In edge of a wing, a curved space

Without feathers. It is harder

To fly without all the feathers

You should have, I suppose.

The herons keep on crossing

The air above the river.

Even if one is behind,

And the other is in front,

Both of them know where

The other is. I like to think so.