Maureen Donatelli

It pushes at us, this air that holds
only the hush of our paddles,
yellow cleaving clear water, their rise
bringing droplets, a rain
of echoes through this funnel
of mountains mirrored sharp
under a sun bleaching
clouds, paining the eye
and time transforms
into something immeasurable.

Glide. We breathe with everything breathing.
Blue mountain skin pins us to water.
My breath crests. All the silent eyes watch.
You turn and show me your crimson gills heaving.
We pass through. Vanish.