The Backpack Press

I am the pioneer, not you.

When you came, I had already seen

the vast stretches of tall cool grass and trees shading, standing,

watching.

When you came,

I had already known

the warmth of late summer twilight and the chill of an early fall sunrise.

I am the pioneer, not you.

I washed over your tired feet and soothed your limbs and your pain

I was there to refresh you and I watched you smile at the taste of my

clear water.

Do you remember the quiet winter when you skated across my frozen surface,

shouting and laughing with your friends?

And then the spring, when you built little boats and I tossed you in them?

I am the pioneer, not you.

I washed over my banks over and over again and you said I didn’t know where to stop.

I flooded the hills and the paths over and over again

and you thought I was wrong, that you could fix me.

I came up to your silly bridges

and lapped against the fragile wood structures you buried in my riverbed.

I’ll win you know.

I carried away your simple tents and your plantings and playthings

And you.

I carried you all on my back down stream until nobody remembered

you,

But you will remember me.

You will say,

“The spring of aught-six was

a bad one, the river was a terrible thing,” and you will fear me now,

you will run from me

and you will move your tents away and you will have to bring my water up hills to your homes.

And I will miss the time when I washed over your feet and you sat along my banks, sipping my clear water.

It’s different now.

It’s my nature that you should fear me.

I am the pioneer.

Not you.

(Written about the St. Joe River. It is now, as pictured above, 6′ above flood stage). Photo credit: WNDU