A few mornings ago, I saw you again. It was early, and the sun had hardly risen. The sky is pink here when the sun starts to rise. I’ve seen you then before, so I associate those things together. This time, you climbed into some sort of utility vehicle — big and gray — before moseying away. Where we were, I don’t remember. I think maybe you cut your hair, or it was tucked up in a cap you wore. It must have been nearing eight o’clock. Until then, I hadn’t thought about you in some time. But with that sighting came an electricity, a resurging spark, a reminder of why you’re so arousing. As usual, though, you were gone as quickly as you came.
Now, the thought of you has practically rented space out inside my head. I can’t shake this, still. You weigh on me. Wandering central Port Huron, walking the River, nothing has assuaged it. And it isn’t fair. You come and go so sporadically and casually and are gone for such lengths of time, that it shouldn’t exist, but something keeps that electricity going, something is keeping the lights on. I can’t help it.
Walt Whitman wrote of nature and of longing, and consequently, of nature as if it were the flesh we long for. Or whom we long for. I see that now in you. That “welcome nearness,” and the “hungry gnaw” — all “from native moments, from bashful pains, singing them, seeking something yet unfound though I have diligently sought it …” Everywhere I wander, there you are. The River is an allegory for your returning, the early and temporary light cascading over town an emblem for your leaving. Help me put this thing to rest by staying gone or staying here. One might give us the chance to speak again, to share a longer look past acknowledging the mere existence of the other. Or not. Either way, I’ll sleep much better without the cacophony of echoes you leave behind ringing in my ear.
Pent-Up Aching Rivers 