Worthy

The last time I remember
rowing a boat I was twelve
in a canoe with my brother
and we drifted under
a bridge where
two figures stood
making conversation
in the shade.

The river was brown
like dog fur or clay
and the fish spawning
out of it were green
like apple flavored candy.

We worked the oars
smoothly through
the water, the trees
on both banks wore
their leaves like veils
and their branches sagged
like loose fabric
in the sleeves of a cloak.

The sun turned red
as we went on like that
propelling the vessel
with only our strength
and the current.

The memory becomes
gelatinous at this point,
but when I dip my finger in,
I can pull out the view
of a hatchet cut
into a birch tree,
and the distant buzz
of power lines.

Our wet shoes
leaving footprints
to the car.