The river is higher than it has ever been and I desire
to put on boots, walk the sunken boards;
a daring or a testing of what is deemed real.

An egret lands on the few inches of piling still above surface
but doesn't tarry long, wary—
like when we hover our hands over a lit burner,
feel the heat, pull away.

I am on land observing the rising level of the river,
can place my hand on the oak and feel anchored.

But what of seafarers in open water, their source of bearing?
It is hard enough to maneuver love's hidden bulkheads—
how do you trust this tide.