March wind rushes April in like an impatient child-
even the herons are waiting.
Cold walk along bridge pipe edges full of rust
rock graffiti carved thick and heavy.
Below wind whistles and spins around heron-toed mud
Water lapping between as specks of glass and coal dust settle. Tiny leaves slither and stick then release in the spin of the wind.
In the fold of the river’s arms is an urgent chill.
Tossed cigarette butts and shore trash lie where regret and misery linger, caught in the mud of winter.
Huddling under a trestle while heavy drops linger and tease letters on our page.
Air smells thick of iron salts and red clay.
We look for the herons or a glint of hope in the egrets eye
as he spots a silver-flicker flash and dives into the foamy maze.
Thoughts ease as we settle and listen to April trudging in on the
back of distant cars.