On one level the river mouth
is not open—a sand bar across its flow
into the ocean;
on another level it is open wide.

My cousin and I inflate our kayak
and paddle upriver,
turning as the river turns,
headed for the mouth
of the cave,
passing by those
faces in the limestone,
paddling on.

There is wind.
There is glass.
There are rising fish.
There are paperbarks.

The water is clear;
the bottom brown.

We sit and drift.
Wooditchup.
The cave and mouth
engulf us
without us stepping foot ashore.

Then the sound of an osprey.
The landing of another.
The sighting of another
sitting silently.
More.

The wind comes up from the south,
but swirls a little down here.
As it all swirls,
blowing first from outside in
but then from inside out;
first from one point to another,
then from a central,
limitless source
to everywhere,
though quiet,
forceful,
seen in stillness—
as people
cross from one side
of a river
to another.