The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by Israel Wasserstein

At the Bend in Cow Creek

Leaves slide across the dark surface,

brown water divides  prairie.

This far out, no human sounds—

only wind through trees, a woodpecker downstream.

You leap, as always, headfirst. Below, discarded

trash, rusted beyond recognition, catches

the top of your head. Weeks later, you’ll

regain some movement in your fingers.

We draw you out, wait for civilization

to claim you, paramedics travelling fifteen miles

from Hutchinson. Long enough to know:

we drag our world with us, even to the depths.