I rode the rapids of the Iguazú
until I reached the falls at Devil’s Throat.
I sailed the Beagle Channel on a boat
that nearly capsized as it ran into
a sudden storm. I paddled on the Plate,
the Jaguarão, the Corcovado; swam
the Paraná and didn’t give a damn
about piranhas or the spotback skate.

Those were the waters of the wild in me.
Now time has tamed the tenor of my dream
and I am drawn back to the source, the stream
I disregarded as an absentee—
the Susquehanna, ancient, faithful, strong.
The river that had borne me, all along.