Christine Shook
Father’s Arms
On a morning walk, a few drifting clouds are edged in rose, and the light around the moon is swallowed in the sky. One or two red leaves flicker on the top of an Elm. I want to dive into the sky the way I once dived into the water. Surface in a different galaxy.
My father taught me how to dive. We went out to a pier on the river and he held me around the waist. I leaned over the water and he let go. At first, I landed flat. Water rushed up my nose, skin burned at the hairline. He fetched me out of the water and summer air warmed chattering limbs. We tried a number of times, until at last, I jackknifed out of his reach, soared into the air, and fled into the cool lower regions of the river. A few small fish scattered and a trout lurked behind a rock. When I came up for breath, father threw me a towel.
A blue heron
perched on a rock
arches back
plunges its beak
into the rapids
About the Author
Christine Shook lives in New York City and has been writing tanka for over 20 years. She studied with Clark Strand, author of Seeds from a Birch Tree. Her tanka appeared in Ribbons and tanka prose in Haibun Today.