The Scraps

Trees bloomed from the little river
like colored lights from a crystal.
Sunlight found its way through swift
unworried fish, through water hyacinths,
through reeds, to the bright sand
which supported the gentle water.

The man’s bare shoulders alternately kissed
shadow and sunlight; his canoe
moved silently from bend to bend.
The woman in front sat still and watched for signs.
Turtles slept thickly on damp logs.
Egrets found the steps they had forgotten.

Spanish moss was curious in the trees.
Narrows quietly deepened. There were children.
Sometimes the sand reached up to touch the boat.
At the end of the run, a sign said softly, “Please.”
But he threw bread and bitten disks of meat:
raccoons boiled at the riverbank for scraps.