The Watershed

The Watershed

One evening the watershed nearest the place
Where you came into this world
Decided to stand up into the air
Like those paper cutouts that loom up
Out of children’s books as the page turns,
Bending with its own weight as it rose
Like a perfectly planted pole vault pole.
Depending on where you grew up,
This tree of water was either clear as glass
Or murky with mud. Anyone unlucky enough
To have been fishing its waters at the time
Was lifted up too and stood stunned 
In its branches, their hooked lines dangling down.
And because your watershed had decided
It would rather be a tree, it was only 
A matter of time before someone happened
Along and thought to chop it down.
He angled the chainsaw in, spewing mist
Instead of sawdust, and cut through
The concentric rings of water, stepping back
When he sensed it was beginning to go.
It fell right back into its bed like a sick man 
Who, thinking he felt well enough to get up, 
Falls back into the sheets. How have I not
Heard about this before, you might ask?
Only the fishermen and the sawyer noticed
(I had to cut it down, just trust me). As for
The fishermen, they walked back to town
And told everyone at the tavern 
About being lifted high into the air 
In leafless branches of water, but they’d lost 
Their credibility as storytellers long ago.