At the crossing

I’m waiting at the river crossing, watching what’s going on. The ferryman grows gourds for ladles to bail his boat. The river rises high on its banks— no way to wade across. Pheasants call to their mates— the river’s no obstacle for them. Geese call to each other in the sky— flying to their feeding grounds. Men cross over to marry every spring, but I hear nothing from my man. The ferryman beacons me to cross, but for me it would be a bitter crossing.