Adrift

This night is opaque

And uncluttered.

Early Spring fog.

The constant rush

Of the river overcoming

The Wing Damn

A mile downriver

Echoing up

Into the umbrella

Of rich woolen tapestry

Festooned with sporadic

Cabochons.

The throat of a Harley

Clutching up

And going South

Is the only other sound

To break the wax
Of the stillness.