Motion

Down the channels of The Yangtze, their Snow Dragon
Flower mountain rising to call them home, the stern
prow and bow of the boat slice an arrow through ice.
Motion melts and ripples
surf like mercury to the banks of the shore.
Towards her, he stretches the oars forward,
twisting the paddles back, thin and flat through the mist.
Each arm straightens to come back round, then angular,
dipping down, each muscular sinew of arm and back
pulls, to push the water solids to the past. Their
light surface scratches whirlpool
to swivel in the smoky morning air.
Nature is resting. There's a lasso wind
all ahead like hummingbird wings or the echo
of an absent car passing. Disturbed                                                                                                      they wait for motion to take them to the bend.
Beating wings and slashed air, something snaps?
Sounds of flat skimming stones and the crack
or splash of rope. Inquisitive eyes watch them turn:
The washerwoman and her dawn-light fisherman
notice nothing - their motion unbroken - he casting
lasso nets again and again to whirl and slap
a hand's circle on the hungry glass. And she?
Kneading clothes of dough against a smooth and ragged
rock, then the thwack of sun bleached cloth against the air.
She shakes each to flutter clean in the slight breeze.
He pulls the oars again and rests. They pause. Their
liquid tracks meet, and they glide in the misty quiet.
A still point; a slow motion's moment of mutual respect
and the exchange of the slightest smiles to mark it.