The crickets’ eerie premonition.
The bronze mood of snaking
river, mirrored in
cottonwood’s heart-shaped fallen
shield. Identity’s an equal sign
in autumn – twin banks
the Mississippi makes
to fringe the tender almonds of a span
darken toward evening, of a year.
That wavy, sooty smudge
afloat below the bridge
no raven now, but King-bird, here –
old Balder Will, majestic, serene
sailing with the wind
downstream. You’ll find
his imago, dispersed, unseen –
scattered in brown eddies, copper jags...
the soft green lichen
of anonymous kin-
folk. King Who-He-Who-She brags
like Pharaoh, but it’s all a masque –
smiling through the year-
dregs... tears toward Phoenix-Pasque.
Chaste vision is an equal sign.
Justice like rain – drifting
from Cosmosphere, where all things shine.
bald eagle in flight, reflected below bridge