Humbled by an incline,
I hear working men
put each other on blast
with the occasional laugh
that rippled river water,
travelling over fields of
infant flowers.
Offered constant shade,
I slow-walk past a trio
of unlucky fishers
who tangle their lines
and tangle their words
inside a green glass bottle
that I'm too tired to judge.
Pitted against two bridges,
capsized canoeists
push themselves back
to a muddy verge,
and I imagine if I'll be there
one distant Spring afternoon,
sinking without danger
as water cools my skin.
By James A. Brightman
Humbled by an incline,I hear working menput each other on blastwith the occasional laughthat rippled river water,travelling over fields ofinfant flowers.Offered constant shade,I slow-walk past a trioof unlucky fisherswho tangle their linesand tangle their wordsinside a green glass bottlethat I’m too tired to judge.Pitted against two bridges,capsized canoeistspush themselves backto a muddy verge,and I imagine…
James A. Brightman: Poet and Writer 
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