Chippewa River

Chippewa River

It was time to leave the cabin and drape
the clothes lines with sheets, fitted and flat,
with mismatched pillowcases ballooning
in the wind. A strong summer sunlight
had pierced the woods and dried the patch of
meadow we called the yard. Wildflowers—
Indian paintbrushes, not dandelions—sprouted
amidst the sharp spears of grass. The earth,
hard as cement, shed what moisture that came
to it—snow in winter, rain and dew
the other times of the year—refused
to yield to my bare feet. I was careful
about where to place my toes. Mindful of
the bees browsing the orange-flagged blossoms.
Glad for now that the mosquitoes refused
to leave the confines of the shade. To air
the cabin out, we left both doors wide open,
funneling the breeze, raised all the windows.
Dusted the layer of grit that covered
everything, swept the usual cobwebs
from the corners that sent the spiders
scurrying. My brothers, stretching their pale
torsos across the wood slats of the dock,
dipped jars into the water, gathering
leeches they'd later bring into the house
like adopted strays. That first night, we'd sink
into sun-dried sheets and listen to the stillness
descend around us—so complete we could
hear the tread of many tiny feet across
the mesh of screens, sense the leeches spreading
themselves thin against that clear barrier
of glass from the nightstand between us—
buoyed by dreams of heat and fallen pollen.