by Green Island bridge
at the feet of Troy.
I imagine its green soup seeping from sundrenched algaes
that grow over pebbles in the Adirondack brooks.
The sandpipers stepping, plucking grubs.
A primeval place i could have made my home
to wake to the sounds of the speachless birds.
The river is resting.
after its busy weekend, when
on my way to the bus this past friday
the river surprised me.
Not aimless and ambling,
but an swirling burls of green waters intent on passing me
faster than i had ever seen it,
toting jostling tree trunks and foam and random stuff
I could almost reach below its cement berm
and touch it
where it's usually five feet below,
The tide was up .
And i remembered seeing the sliver moon
inching towards dawn a few mornings ago.
The rebirthing jesus moon
who called people to churches
emptying the streets of troy
last easter weekend.
Then to slipp behind the sun for rebirth.
Sun, the far seething furnace giant
birthing the elements
and the moon our brother, closer
ball of silent rock finished with its violent geology,
together shoulder to shoulder pulling
the seawaters with their tide ropes of tugging gravities
towards the hot summer noon
calling the river to flood banks, and hide tree roots.
Now the river washes me
from a weekend of rushing and conflicted interests
of filling my life with pencilled in commitments
pulled by the tides that distract,
from the rest,
of the silence of earth of foundling brooks
at Lake Tear of the Clouds
silent origin of the hudson
nested in trees far from the industry of men.
Now I dream in the green deeps of the ocean dreaming river
before the human tides of this city pull me apart