The Rise
By Mike Bedwell
By Mike Bedwell
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On a sandy spit of gravel below the concrete dam We made camp just as crickets began to sing. Our lines set and hooks all baited, We built a fire and waited. We scorched ourselves a can of pork and beans; Ate with our fingers; wiped them on our jeans. Dusk's timid shadows deepened into darkness. The soft gurgle of water became a sleeping potion. As stars winked down from a humid summer sky. I blinked slowly, then shut the other eye. A gentle Southern breeze rustled through the air. Just before sleep found me I offered up a prayer. I dreamed of an imaginary sweetheart And fried chicken from a picnic basket. We dined on the ground amid pansies and phlox. Her face was enchanting, framed in auburn locks. My cot creaked and groaned as I flipped and flopped. Though deep in slumber, I knew something popped! Was I flying or falling? I couldn't tell. It happened so fast! The wobbly wooden frame had simply dumped me flat. I braced myself for the rocks below to smash. Instead, I landed cold and wet..with a splash! I sloshed and scrambled and finally stood erect. Then I heard a roaring sound I never did expect. It was the noise of water rushing all around. Pleasant dreams were over; our campsite awash. My startled sinuses reacted with a sudden sneeze As the mighty Rio Frio swirled about my knees. The campfire was gone; our lines were nowhere in sight. But I learned an important lesson that soggy August night. If upon a river's path you intend to make your bed Be advised Mother Nature is an unforgiving lady. Remember, things are seldom as they seem. Before you make camp, check the rainfall upstream! |
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