NATURE Poem: Convergence, by Philip Lisi

On the banks of the Ardoch Burn,
in the shadow of Doune,
a thick-pelted otter lollops
up and over lichen-coated igneous
left dry in the cleugh.

I marvel at its slinky deftness,
its effortless, oily movement among the stones,
its back flexing to match the riffles,
lippering astride its hop-dive-curl-stretch–
lovely syncopation in walnut brown.
Then, finally, in mid hop-curl,
it is gone.

My father has made it halfway down
the slope that leads to the water’s edge.
From there, I take his hand
and help brace his body,
so fragile now I barely feel
its weight against my arm.

Together, we reach level ground and pause.
We talk about the grey heron
we see wading in the river,
silent and precise in its quest for perch.
I tell him of the otter,
long and sleek and blink-swift.

My father says little–
A manifestation of his condition,
his neurologist tells me.
But I suspect he is thinking
about the otter with envy
as I offer my arm for ascension.