January Thaw (a prose poem)

river through the window screen

In between writing and revising essays during my month here at Vermont Studio Center, I've been writing little prose-poemish nuggets. Here's one I wrote last week.

January Thaw

The river has a false bottom made of ice. It looks murky brown, like semi-solid silt, as though you could stand on it, the icy water around your calves. But the submerged ice would give way as you tried to put your foot down. Down you'd go, to your hips, your shoulders, your ears. Maybe deeper. I don't know how to gauge depth from the surface. Not many of us do. This is why we assume or argue, why we end up in over our heads. When the river freezes and snow falls, it's hard to see where the banks end and where the water begins. It's a different story over on the other side of the bridge: fast moving falls and huge sheets of ice a foot thick wedged atop ice chunks, like a continental shelf washed upon cold boulders. Over there, there's no mistaking the danger.