Up River

She says that to search for peace is futile because once we have it, we turn the war in on ourselves. She lights a smoke under the stars. “There is never peace everywhere. Yet hope of it exists, always so brazen at this time of year.”

She dips a paddle-tip into thick water. “Olive branches appear and disappear, a slight tilt to the right; a light shift to the left; candles, fireflies and fairy lights, to offset a little dark.” I have her back. So perhaps it’s not her eyes that flash.

“New year’s resolutions define the lists of things to do, becoming the lists of broken promises, of what not to. Making plans, sustaining delusions, building on something, reaching conclusions; righteous architects walking on the water of the swamp.”

She paddles though the sludge, “If you want it, there is some peace in the shallow breath of the canoe.” An owl hoots and she smiles. I watch her flick the tobacco tip like a fish jumping over the side. “Let’s drink tonight!” and there’s the flash, as she leans right back, and howls.