Tennis Ball

I sit by the river for some time.
I see twigs, logs, and leaves roll past,
and also a tennis ball—
brown, waterlogged, mysterious.
When did it find its way to this river,
and where was its origin?
It has been traveling hundreds of miles,
many days and nights,
refusing to be caught up along
a bend or a bank.
It has seen one hundred and twelve houses and nineteen shacks.
It has seen at least a dozen swimming pools
and twice as many motor boats.
It has been brushed by two swimmers
and observed by forty-one sets of eyes
Forty-two with mine.
And I wonder:
if I waded into the water to join it,
what would I see?
What would see me?