Ice Boats On the Miles
"Here they come!"
We ran hard, fast
in the boots of our
brothers, too loose,
laces frayed and complicated,
up the slope of a hill
that marked the bitter,
dreary end of the Miles.
The snow
had been a burdensome
blanket for weeks. Too heavy.
Too cold. We were red and raw
and breathless in the wind
before we made it. At the top
my father waved to me.
"Better hurry!"
And I slipped once,
catching myself in the
snow covered ice, fingers
digging, cold and deep
into the wintery earth.
Sharp, I gasped.
Fingers cracked and bled,
I stumbled on.
And at the top. My God!
Down below the river
swayed and hugged
the land. It swelled once
but not now. Not yet.
The river was ice.
I'd never seen it froze
end to end.
And in the middle,
a schooner! A sailor,
moving about his
maiden voyage, his vessel
fast and sleek and strong
across the icy wakes,
spraying frost and hardened
slush.
"The first of the ice boats."
Dad took my bloodied hand
and grabbed a rag, but I
stared down the bluff.
"How's he doing that?"
"Sled rails."
I think it silly now,
but then I admired it.
Funny, what memories remain.
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