The tide comes from nowhere
in this little backwater creek.
Beyond the sedges in the wide river,
the push and pull of the tide
bends the long slender poles
of channel markers red and black
and they quiver and bob in the current.
But the tide comes from nowhere here,
simply rises then simply falls,
and I row the two of us easily
toward the old drawbridge.
The two of us, out here with our
fishing poles, buckets and bait
under a cloudless sky.
Our boat is so small, a flat bottomed skiff
older than we are, that there’s no need
to open the bridge for us.
No klaxon sounding, no bells ringing,
gate swinging; no giant hinges groaning.
No traffic stopping on the roadway for us.
As we approach I rest my oars
and we drift slowly under the bridge,
into the cool and dim water-green light
and we listen to the sounds:
the slap of waves against pilings;
cars rumbling, clattering, trundling above.
We hear our voices echoing,
“Hey!” bouncing off the water
sent a thousand fractured ways
among the maze of pilings and braces.
“Hey!” resounding so oddly,
the undulating surface
of the water altering pitch and duration,
making a wavering watery sound
under the creosoted planks and beams
under the gears and pulleys
the counterweights, wheels and cables.
And as we come out the other side
into the bright sunlight again,
the bridgetender leans out of
his window into the August sun,
an old man, with his elbows on the sill
and a faded long-billed cap on his head.
He smiles down at us and says
“Hey, yourself and welcome to Crabtown.”
“Crabtown?” I say, squinting up at him.
“Yah, Crabtown Creek. That’s what
the oldtimers call it. I guess you kids
didn’t know that, did ya?”
I shake my head and he goes on:
“Yah, Glimmerglass on the side
where ya come from, but
Crabtown Creek over here.
So ya goin’ fishin’? It’s a day for fishin’.”
“Might.” I say, “Could be we will.
Yah, it’s a day for fishin’.”
And I’m aware that I’ve answered him,
and aware that I don’t know why,
in his own pattern and rhythm.
But as I take up my oars and pull
and feel the sun on my back and the weight
of the water, I suddenly know that I know
the weathered old man on the bridge,
watching the tides, watching the boats,
the boys and the girls, and the years,
as they all go drifting by.
I know who he is: he’s me.