Portage

I watched from the bridge as two young men paused with their pile of gear

and their canoe atop the dry crest of the Bowersock Dam.

Then a sleeping bag, a water jug, a clutch of fishing poles, and more –

they moved them piece by piece to another pile on the concrete apron below.

Last, one on each end of their canoe, they negotiated the several concrete ledges

where water would fall in rainier times.

Then, in no apparent hurry, they each grabbed a pole,

tossed a line into the muddy Kaw,

and sat,

their eyes toward the horizon -

and they waited.

Does the spirit of Huckleberry Finn yet live?

The deep blue sea ahead,

and around the next bend, perhaps,

there be dragons?