The River   I had to see the river after rain fell a deluge a day for weeks. It spoke to me in Saxon wordclusters — again and again it roared, Hwaet! Listen up! Look at my hard-muscling might, rain-drunk, relentless, rock-tumbling, bank-devouring, hell-bound for the storm-stricken sea . . .                                                 And while it went on this way, a speedboat appeared around the bend, then a towrope and then a skier who skimmed the roiling, chocolate water — what was she thinking? Did she laugh at her fear, did she tell herself, Emily, this ought to look so great on Facebook, Instagram . . . ? The river? Didn’t seem to give a damn.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont August 2021