Black River

"Along the sandbars flocks
Of white egrets roost,
Each one clenched like a fist.'
         – Du Fu, from "Brimming Water"








My paddle cuts through
the waning reflections of sun.
Two old floating houses
sit at the end of the bay
empty, cocked, sinking.
Near December first freeze
nothing is alive in the sky.
I pass under a bald eagle.
It is perched on the limb
of a black river oak lonely,
an old man in an overcoat.
I glide for a moment silent.