whirligigs on the Delaware River
The water’s rushing under the Frenchtown Bridge and we stand, equidistant,
between banks. It’s a perfect May afternoon, sun-dappled and warm, and absent of
appointments and deadlines and jury duty, we have time to stand here and lean a little
over the hand rails, allow our gaze to drift up- or downstream at its own
amphibious rhythm. Which is why, perhaps, we’ve spotted the flocks of maple seeds,
frenetic on the river’s skin, translucent mementos the wind’s dropped on its dash
through the valley. Whatever happens next could look like this, like whirligigs
on the Delaware River, and it could feel like craziness or it could feel like good fortune.
A branch is stuck at the center pillar, 30 feet below, and I guess it could feel like that, too.
But then we’re moving, steering our bodies on, because we can, because it’s what we do.