Over the river, with the tide running south
towards the warm and expecting, two white birds flew.
Behind them the dead of winter remained stagnant,
and beneath them ice broke into life, and became motion.
The first bird dipped, and grazed the child of nature,
the birth of water, from its December carcase.
The second bird soared opposite the first, choosing the path of Icarus,
and so nearly touched the sun, that my eyes burned to follow its flight.
They exchanged places down the Hudson, for as far as my limiting vision could perceive,
an endless concerto, into the light, between life and death.
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