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Eye of the Storm // Middle of the Map

High floating water forges

A sycamore mangrove,

The new Kansas coast.

The wet summer, the raining sun,

Raises the lake to lick the sky–

Oil-slick water greets stratus wisps.

When the sluice ceases,

We kayak in emerald treetops.

Our three boats convoy in gentle waves,

Upsetting the natural rhythm,

Balancing our emboldened bodies.

We row in the sun’s fiery eye,

Glimmering as golden as the hour–

The water’s fugue surreptitiously dawning.