~ after a photograph by John-Henry Doucette
In a pool of icy water, an egret shapes
a question about the future. What question?
Oh, you know— the same one you ask
whenever you come to an edge
You want to know what’s there,
and what’s coming. All around you,
powdery drifts that blur the dirt;
leaf mold, the sweetgum’s dry
but dangerous grenades. So much
that seems to go endlessly on:
banks of cold white, sky like rubbed
newsprint flaking off in thin patches.