I have been here before
and the bare trees seem to know it
The paths change a little each time I walk them.
Ice and mud today.
Dried earth and sun tomorrow.
They always lead me to same place
Teetering on driftwood at the edge of the river.
My mind filled with the Mississippi’s white noise electric
ice cracking with each swell of wave
I dare myself to walk upon the ice
and plunge my head through the sheet like an eagle fishing for lunch.
But a chilled north wind forces me to retreat back to the bluff
where time is kept by pieces of limestone
loosening their grasp and clicking down the jagged cliffs