Poem

Gliding through the water As swift and silent as an arrow With the swish swish splash of the paddle. Water burbling over smooth stones, singing over sticks, Jumbling in a happy mass to wherever rivers go. The blue blue sky overhead, clear as crystal, Dotted here and there with wisps of milk-white clouds. A gentle breeze, ruffling the water, making ripples. Tousling my hair with invisible fingers. The calls of birds to one another overhead, A tapestry of sound, laced with splashes And the murmur of summer crickets. Trees in full glory, Ancient reminders of what used to be, Stand as silent sentinels— Ever watchful as the river flows on. Magnificent cliffs rise out of the current, With tall black buttresses like a castle, Cloaked in emerald green, Polka-dotted by clumps of sunshine flowers. The crunch of the boat on rocks. Eager feet clamber out to explore this new place. The smell of wild mint drifts lazily on the air Like the circling hawk, Wafting under my nose, inviting a taste… An eagle, full of splendor and pride, Perches in the tallest tree And watches everyone below. Like a father, stern, gazing on playing children. His eyes are black as the rock and cruel if need be. The boat drifts on again, Past a brigade of pelicans dressed in shiny white. They glance momentarily at our canoe and, As if deeming it not important enough to trouble themselves with, They continue their toilet. All this beauty and magnificence, Captured in a single moment, like a snapshot, Tucked away in the folds of memory, To be taken out later and cherished as a jewel, A memory of what once was, The canoe, the river, the long ago afternoon… Hannah Mark, 12 Hardin, Montana

One day we were riding in the car Talking about his work He speaks so deeply about everything Has a philosophical point of view. Talks to me like an adult As if I understand The amount of wood needed to construct a frame And how business works. Nonetheless, I listen And do so very intently For I love to hear the sound of his words that are not only Soft and gentle and beautiful But have lessons hidden beneath them. Kira Householder, 12 Scottsdale, Arizona

In a comic explosion of feathers, the hens race to the safety of a compost pile. I wave a dirty dish rag after them, a warning not to get too close to our first outside dinner of the year. They start to creep forward, combs waving, lured by the plates of food we are bringing out. I go to drastic measures, throwing the towel in their midst. The hens raise their wings high, and do a little flying sprint out of the area, shrieking indignantly. After dinner I go out to the coop and stroke them, listening to their soft clucks as they settle down for the night. They slowly rock and shuffle around on the roost, like they are putting themselves to sleep. I give each hen a pat on the head, then go back to the lit-up house, In sharp contrast with the dark night, leaving them to coo to each other until they fall asleep. Celie Kreilkamp, 11 Bloomington, Indiana