always, always flowing south

In Maiden Rock, along Pepin's north shore, 

a single hawk hovers in late-morning sky—swift 

shadow across pale blue white. Its glide suggests 

effortlessness. Summer now and nestlings can fly. 

I'm on retreat seeking lightness and quiet. Here, inside 

a cottage surrounded by windows through which 

I see day lilies and trees, butterflies and passerines. 

In my writer's thesaurus, 'diurnal' follows 'ditzy' 

and ditzy means 'featherbrained,' and this proximity 

to the word I sought feels serendipitous. Did you know 

Lake Pepin exists in two states? At dusk, I'll swim 

there and watch ruthless birds ride the thermals— 

parents free of offspring, juveniles migrating away. 

I'll float—imagining my fledgling fledged, myself 

fledged. Later when my work is done, I will 

dive into the vast lake sourced by a river 

that is always, always flowing south. 

 

[Michael Kleber-Diggs, 'Postcard from the Bottom of a Lake', from Worldly Things]