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| From a Bridge over the Illinois River How black it is this morning, the flat, heavy river glossy under a shifting sketch of fog. The vapor dissolves and re-forms, restless as a woman trying to sleep who knows what work awaits, while the dense river slumbers perfectly, pouring himself steadily west in a polished black snore, his mighty job being to join the Mississippi at the place, at the time, and fretting won’t change that, she knows, but who will rock the boats? Or catch the turtles plunking alarmed from their logs, or ripple silently outward from the healing gash scored by an eagle snatching up a curved fish? And all the light? All the light to be cupped, glanced, or glared back at the pondering sky, while holding a wavery mirror to the autumn shore, all this to be done —slowly sunlight warms her to rise calmly, take up her ancient and beautiful tasks, make again of the day a wrought, detailed journey. – Maureen Ash |