The Damariscotta River

Damariscotta wears her river like a ribbon in a young girl’s hair.

Some days she meanders, brightly blue, sparkling, shining as she passes the shore, reflecting the fluffy clouds above.

Other days, shabby and untidy, she frays around the edges,

unable to control where she lands or stay tied neatly to her banks. gray, lazy, almost feeble.

Days like today, she limps along, a lackadaisical pat here and there at a passing boat, listless,

dragging small swells up only rarely, sweltering in the heat, too damp even for a river to play.

But nights like tonight, when storms come in, she’ll show her true power

lashing out across the seawall, roaring into the flatlands, flooding the grounds

, and whipping the earth with gray sharp edges.

She unties small dories, heaving them to skitter ashore, while her water churns with electric ferocity.

If one lives near her long enough, it just takes closed eyes and a deep breath to sense what kind of tide will rise.

Even then, she guards her secrets well.

She won’t tip her hand

not for the docks or the rocks or for you.

Her ribbons of saltwater carry whispers of wildness and warning, reminding you that it is she

that chooses who to hold,

and who to sweep back into the dark, endless pull of the sea.