Crossing

by Pat Boran

Because his life depended on it,
because there was no other path,
because night was coming on
and the hounds were closing fast

he took to the river; up to his chest
in the freezing water he waded out,
fighting to keep upright but then
suddenly swept right off his feet;

so that the thing he’d feared the most
like most of the things we draw back from —
losing our footing, being carried off —
became the thing his life depended on.