Lucinda Madsen
To the put-in we go, jittering
our way over the miniature canyons
of the dusky dirt road. One day,
we’ll know this dusty hollow. We’ll know
the ochre shadow of crackle-dry
cottonwoods, we’ll know the squilch of river silt
on bare feet. The chocolate milk swirl
of river sinew through stone will stain
us and wash us clean again.
These are the treasures of tomorrow,
of sun and of day; tonight, we know
nothing but night air and the dirt
clouding our fingertips. By the light
of our headlamps, we play, turning sand
clods into rivaling wrestlers, dueling
in matches for our riveted
audience: the bats, the whisper
of their wings fluttering against
our tangled hair, eating the mosquitoes
off our skin; the mud-toads, their bulgy eyes
watching with alarm, hopping in and out
of the spotlight; the stars, dancing in place
in forgotten patterns, washing
our turned backs alight in silvery
brilliance. We will go down that torrent
of sand and rock and spoons and oars,
tomorrow, and we will come back,
our sandbar bodies shaped anew every time.
Lucinda Madsen is a sophomore studying Environmental Engineering. She is a lapsed linguistics nerd, an aspiring birder, and a current poet.
