The River

Renee Vanessa

There is a difference in the early morning hours 


waking up alone in the house on the river,
drinking coffee just how I like it on the back porch in the coolest patch under the leaning elm,
so still that the chickadee goes back and forth in front of me collecting green grubs 
to deposit to three hatchlings in the terracotta bird house on the railing,
frogs still chirping unseen on the misty banks,
knowing the entire day will be like this: mine, silent


quietly stepping the hardwood floors while you still sleep,
sipping my share of the coffee pot and going to sit on the big stone by the riverbed,
waiting to hear your footsteps soft on the grass behind me,
turning to smile good morning,
noticing the sun rose high enough to make the morning dew steam away
before you sit on the rock next to me 
close enough that I tilt my head onto your shoulder to watch the current slide past us.