Theophany at Lake Itasca

Moon host tinctured in sun’s blood
and reed all quiver. Loon call
settling on the cold. Shoreline
breaking clean and stars invisible.
Suppose, then, this is where
the river begins
and crosses pebbles
that do not cast. A still slim
stream, the narrow waist.
Think of infancy.
Its irrecoverable, slender narratives.
A waspish navigator
snorkeling across Lake Pepin.
Ospreys on telephone poles
calling ahead to kin
at Pointe à la Hache in Louisiana:
stay, a god is on the way—
genesis of the distant brown fury
now silvering through spruce and larch
and still serene. Already there are
marks of the one true river.
Flattened cans of Bud. Polystyrene
floating bankside. Camel butts, catfish
and gars. Cast-offs from
ancient works and days.
Afternoons of mosquitoes
harry our passage through scrawny
fields, these acres ungenerous. You think
if not us, who will propitiate
the spirit of the place.