Snow melt has raised the river, and
Swelled with seasonal aggression
It thrusts burly wet shoulders
through the crumpled mill races
and old forgotten sluices.
The locks are closed;
tangled branches fret against
breakwaters and bridge columns.
In this suspended season between
winter and spring,
The wind tears down from the north
Gaining no purchase on steel, glass,
or last year's withered grass.
The river and the wind contest,
The wind ripping spray from
the churning waterfall,
Raising a towering cloud of water-vapor smoke
in my city without fire.
Heads down against the wind,
Faceless travelers are indifferent
to the hovering spectre
Dissipating alone as the river
The less than paternal wind
long gone already.
Christopher J. Cramer
June 6, 2011