The wooden bridge
crosses the river
at its most virile,
spring current,
as cold as mountaintops,
crashing and splashing
against rock and bank.

None bother fishing
in the torrent.
And swimming
in its brisk waters
would be like dogpaddling
with a broken log.

All we can do
is grip the railing,
lean into the spray,
act as momentary buffer
between snow thaw and gravity
before pulling away.

Elsewhere,
wide blue sky,
lack of wind,
presages a calm
that’s there for the asking.
But, for now,
we prefer
the rage, the frenzy,
the turbulent spring waterway
that tells us what to do.

---

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Soundings East, Dalhousie Review and Connecticut River Review. Latest book, “Leaves On Pages” is available through Amazon.