Down the Bear River

Jane Edberg copyright 2002

The shaded riverbank is steeped in blackened green rotten leaves. Bubbles rise with the fragrance of pulpy earth as my bare feet press into the rivers edge where green algae slinks it's ferny arms in a multitude of vortices, swirling grey mud and yellow silt.   I slip into the mouth of the Bear River. After me, his red blanket spills in like red blood.

My white body drifts, skin taught, bound by a topography of well-formed goose bumps. Icy currents undulate over me, swift and pulling. I am forced into the rivers flow. The blanket wraps itself around me,   like a drowning victim,   grabbing, heavy and relentless. We arrow down the meandering blue. Red on blue. We are a wound, a signal, and a pervasive   dissonant chord. We plunder through rapids, mix and churn. Then drift.

Slowly through the shallows we float between sun bleached river rocks. The blanket loosens its grip as I settle up onto a flat boulder whose chest is broad and warm. I try to pull but can only stretch the blanket, a body full of river next to mine. It hangs heavy at the waters edge, daggling its red tail, eager to slip away.