The graffiti under the bridge
is the only color
on this sepia-tone day

The snow covered-teeth
of Sheep Mountain’s
wide grin, like a handsaw

lost from the tool shed
left out over the winter
in the frozen corpse of grass

We’ve been practicing social distancing
for generations – maybe the future
will come up with a better idea

We’ve got a ways to go
before the Yellowstone hits
high water mark on the pylons

Add a few rocks
to flowing water &
suddenly there is music

Add a murmuration of blackbirds
to an otherwise gray sky
& there’s reason to keep breathing

Some small white thing,
too early for cottonwood seed,
floats down from somewhere

merges with the water – disappears
No one will believe it was ever here
at all, & why should they?

A thousand blades
of this frost-edged wind
drive me back to the truck &

the river’s music, replaced
by the thrum & rumble of cars
battering across the 89 Bridge

I’m about to start the engine
when six crosses cut the sky –
Sandhill Cranes! a cosmic Yes!

Something moves, below & above
Feel it?
In times like this we come to rivers