At the fork in the path, the river is high,
streaked with sun in the water’s gray.
You are humming. I am trying
not to cringe at your questionable pitch.
Somewhere, a woodpecker extracts
the softer spots from a stubborn trunk.
We stop. You try to locate the bird
in the branches’ visual maze. I want
to move on. Miles to go before I sleep
and all that shit. Wait, you say. An owl!
Don’t you hear it? Hoooo! You try
to capture the note, camera at the ready,
your hand on my arm tugging at the frayed
tangle of to-dos, tensed muscles between us.
Listen, you say, don’t you hear it?