River
by Chris Kobylinsky
She was an unpretentious pale river,
Not too wide or too deep, meandering
Slowly, an alluvial flume littered
With jutting stones lying upon muddy
Banks, like dozens of regurgitated
Jonahs, clinging to the shore for reprieve.
On one of the snubbed stones was a heron
With a slender neck curved like a question
Mark and a flaming yellow beak as long
And sharp as a rapier. The silent bird
Stood steady, like a steadfast cherub would,
Guarding some sacred and majestic gate.
It was then that the foundling breeze stirred
The stagnant stench of fetid leaves and mud,
And the tall blue heron flew from his perch,
His serrated wings etching the dusk-ruddy water,
Furrowing a light rippling schism
That soon time and fallen leaf will erase.
She was an unpretentious pale river,
Not too wide or too deep, meandering
Slowly, dazzled with untouchable moonlight
Broken only by the forked bough’s shiver.
Chris Kobylinskyis studying English literature as a graduate student and working as a teaching assistant at Western Connecticut State University. He has been a writer of prose, poetry, and poppycock for as long as he can remember. His writing is not only inspired by his many literary heroes—such as Shakespeare, Homer, Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost, and Gerard Manley Hopkins—it is also inspired by the rustic pastures, the stone wall–laced willowwacks, and the abandoned silos of New England. Chris has recently completed his first young adult novel.