The Smokies
I thought,
haphazardly,
they were named
for the haze
when seen from afar.
I had not been there
on a darkened day
after Prometheus stole
Apollo’s glory
and thick clouds hid
the god’s shame.
Everywhere Prometheus strutted
smoke lingered,
suspended between trunks,
snagged on branches,
stuck to leaves,
until the whole valley smoldered
in defiance.
Ducks Tube Too
Rapids vicious, wild,
crashing down a gentle slope
like they were thrown off Everest.
Rabid whitecaps foaming
at a million mouths.
Pounding rocks and trunks
until creation gives way.
Hugging corners like a grown boy
who never learned respect,
forcing his way into every crevasse,
every sacred space, till they are wet
with rage.
With a couple bobs
of a head covered in warpaint,
a mallard tells the river to heel.
And like a neutered mut,
the river bends to the mallard’s thrill.