Whitewater time

Adrift in a current

I cannot control,

no time for excuses.

But there's poetry here,

if only I can hold

in this backeddy

and jot it all down.

Already the end of October

and half the trees are bare.

The song birds are gone,

sweet tunes slipping south,

leaving only the harsh cries

of jays and crows.

In the rivers, salmon

flounder, their future

deposited in gravel banks.

Ice on the deck this morning,

I almost slipped going down

to play fetch with the dogs

and plant next year's garlic.

Soon there will be snow.

Each day grows shorter

each night longer,

and the darkness

keeps me awake.

And I look to the future

with a jumble of

anticipation and dread

for the moment when 

time flows no more