Un poco y no bien, you said.
So why go, I asked,
when you know
the quarry killed Alan,
stunned him with a stone,
ate him whole.
And what about that other one,
river snags snatched him,
dog-paddling in
swift currents.
C'mon, you said.
And I said No.
Mother's brother
taught us terror,
pulling us under
in pools and small lakes.
We knew muck slipped, leechy
criks, carried sticks and
matches, pockets of salt.
Come early spring, we knew not to wade streams.
Quarry, river, pool, slick streams, these waters we knew, were wary of.
We hadn't yet met immensity.
Riptides, vortices, sudden rogues?
Folk tales.
Flash floods, tidal surges, tsunamis?
Dreams.
Waters scaled larger were too far away to fear.
Some took chances in the waters here,
gave little thought to cost.
Odds with small water, a few always lost.
