Sentry

or, beware the fine hair needles

Light and shadow, winter sun through clinging-on-until-spring leaves of the neighboring scarlet oak, hit river rocks.

Hit paddles.

Hit buds that have been or maybe buds that will be.

Be flowers?

Be new paddles?

Scars and scabs, ice burns and sun burns from years past.

Years when the unexpected ice storm came.

Years when the air was manilla yellow with wildfire smoke

and unexpected multiple days of over one-hundred degrees.

Holes in paddles where ice started to eat away.

Scalloped edges from buds coming in at the wrong time.

But still the prickly pear breathes,

sprouts new buds,

pushes through the scars and holes,

expands, exists. Still. Again.

Ready for another season.

Also, in case you’re wondering - because, yes, I have been asked -

no,

I have never eaten the paddles.