When milky fog hovers over the river,
I see autumn paddocks hallucinate ti-trees,
paperbarks steaming, a swamp wreathed in ether,
bovine forms moving more lightly than ruminants,
collar bells chinking reminders of substance
in a volatile, vapid world.
I walk to the river to listen to water,
a phantom poised on the dim pontoon
along with vague silhouettes of herons
hunkered down to watch eddies inbound
for quicksilver glimpsed
through shapeshifting mass,
that signifies fingerlings, morning's catch.
Fog at 5 a. m
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2008
Свидетельство о публикации №108051700966
Свидетельство о публикации №108051700966
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