Spring Ice
has dislodged the caught
branch pinched in the middle of the dam
wall. All winter it
stuck up through
the cold-thick water, both paused
opportunists: the lodged drop-off
from who knows how far, what tree, is
in its decline and the bitter
months have stalled its decay. The river,
her back up to the wind, takes her chances
& rises up the hump with all the motion
she can muster, the drop by drop she turns
by which she turns
solid. It is probably
the only time
she will ever be able
to rest, & to feel the clutch of the wood
& all the daughters & sons, all the animal
of them, summoned & coming & ultimately being
undone. I didn’t see the
ice-
out or the log let go.
The edge
of the dam is a thick rush of rain and snow-
melt. The river has
risen, will rise. & just
nearly out of sight: that branch, the tip
of it treading, & the white foam
a brief beard, where only a week ago ice & snow
colder then & committed, to the last,
to the least, to holding, holding.
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