Upon Returning From the River

-Mark Taratoot

(originally published by American Whitewater Sept/Oct 2017)

Home. But not home.

In my place. But displaced.

My true love is at home; she is in the canyon. My life’s travels take me far from her. Our passionate visits are joyful, but brief.

The sun sets over town; a glowing orange orb -- a vision unseen from the depths of the canyon. The breezes in town still blow cool.

Yet something is missing -- something big.
The whispers and roars of wind and water are replaced by whoosh of cars breaking the still air.

The cascade of warm water is welcome as it washes away grit and dirt and brings me back to the world of the clean. The sharp blade can bring me to the world of the neat and tidy. My love cares not about grit in my hair or hair on my face.

My garden is ripe with a bountiful harvest, yet I already hunger for sustenance that only water, rock, and gravity can provide.

Yes, my sister the river is my love, my sustenance, and my home. The time we spend apart is long. As time passes, the longing grows. May the time be short until once again I am in the arms of the river as she cradles me and carries me with gravity towards the center.