At the edge of a stream I mistake for a river, slender trees are rising like reeds.

Ripples are signifying and testifying.

I think, therefore I say, “Huck and Jim,”

feeling an emotional cascade—a rush of joy for their life on the raft,

a hopeful thing, a world of peace with nature and each other

floating past the racial sickness on the shore,

then a rush of grief for George Floyd, the four horsemen of the apocalypse

bent on their sins of commission and omission. I pivot

from the water to a path shaded by honeysuckle,

thick, leaning in, nectar hidden inside yellow flowers fluttering like birds.

The multitudes by law enforcement murdered, say their names,

are churning waves of grief and resistance

in a nation sick with the pandemic, yes, but also weary

of separation from each other. Huck and Jim,

let us take crisp leaves from your book,

melt them in our mouths, and swallow them so we might assimilate

your amity and river grace. Huck, you had to fight for revelation.

Jim, you always knew. Help heal us, you two.

(previously published in Northern Appalachia Review, 2023, and in Habitat of Ghosts, 2026)