Passed him, early, at the railing
in the middle of the old bridge downtown.
Sky clear as water in a bedside glass.
The last fat stars. Downriver, East still dark.No jumper (by the parka and binoculars
around his neck) and likely no Tom
out peeping at the few lit windows of the high-
rise where I’d guess he lives. Most likely
only a fitful sleeper like myself out early
shedding the lint of dreams.He’s facing upstream—pondering,
maybe, the river’s etiology, how it unbraids,
frays back toward 100 streams and springs.A younger man might face the other way,
lean at the opposite rail, watch downriver
where, when the seam along the East ignites,
new visions will compose themselves.
But he stays put, although binoculars
can’t be much use just now.Maybe he’s waiting for a few more
jots and tittles of the coming light. Enough
to glimpse the water’s cursive whispers
flowing below. Enough finally to make out
birds roosting on the branches, in the sedge
along the bank. To watch them
waking to their only day.