Through the glass, the river; still and flanked by white oaks, thick with snow.
The edge of a new building, wrapped in tyvek, juts out over the water
like the prow of a ship
& two cranes blink two red lights, high into winter grey.
Just after dawn, before the dozen or so men in hardhats arrive to climb
some deer descend from their place in the hills. They make soft tracks
in the snow
beneath the boxelder and sounds that crack the cold quiet
when they step on fallen branches.
I think they come to drink the water in places where it still moves.
The fish drift in their dreamy state under, waiting.
The light comes up late. On the bank, a cottontail
sits under the low-hanging branches of a spruce.
In the trees, by the place where the river bends, bald eagles—
too many to count & more moving in from the north, low over the water.
I want to make myth of it, that numerousness of eagles, the morning radiance
through the glass, the river, then a voice calls
from somewhere inside, the coffee ready, the living things moving into shadows
the darkening elms make.