The Maynard
Spring 2015

Curtis LeBlanc

Idling on the North Saskatchewan

Everything on an even keel.
The first hard drops of April rain
descended from partial clouds and sunlight.
Prairie grass bowed in towards the river.
Even the air had come to an unapologetic stop.
Current wouldn’t pull us one way or the other,
in waters so brown that the walleye couldn’t tell
riverbed from sky. If someone had stood up on those banks,
high up on those ridges, and called my name,
taking their time with each syllable, calling
for my attention, I mean, really calling for it.
Wanting it badly enough. Not even that
would have been enough to seize my mind.
At that point—I did not know it.
But I was satisfied.