Swimming in rain, small waves, an eagle over the islands, one, two, three laps, then four, a sudden swirl of tiny fish, maybe sticklebacks, in the shallows, one raven yelling. When I came out of the water, John was sitting in the shelter of the big fir, putting on his shoes.
All night it rained. This morning the barrels are full, the two tree frogs who’ve huddled for days in the green hoses are nowhere to be seen.
I have the thread of an idea. It came to me in the night, awake because the cat couldn’t settle, wanting in, then out, then in. Red thread, or blue? The idea wants both.
It is still raining. Blue is playing, songs I first listened to 50 years ago, in Victoria, then in Greece, the love I had then taking me to Matala in a three-wheeled car he borrowed from a friend. I knew every word. I picked wildflowers for my room, rosemary, chamomile, dittany. It wouldn’t have occurred to me to wish I had a river but it does now.
In Spain, I bought pink espadrilles, rope-soled. I wore them on cobbles, walking along the Darro River, trees heavy with oranges, lovers talking in the night as we passed the little cafes, already wishing we could stay.
Wind among orange blossoms,
Genil and Darro, lowly
And dead among the marshes.
–from Lorca’s “Little Ballad of Three Rivers”, trans. Rolfe Humphries
I have the thread of an idea. Blue, or red?
...Theresa Kishkan 