The Landing

Something hallowed the shore.
The shore lapped feebly back.
A heron extended its shadow.

It was that end of the commute,
Poling quietly through the fog,
No one aboard but your thoughts.

An ink tree scribbled wet branches.
You could smell the wet sand.
The raft shoved into the gravel.

Get out? You set the pole to rest.
This was your favorite side of water,
Where if you stayed, you went away.

Not yet. The shoreline closed its wings,
And you shoved back off into the river.