Sitting atop the gorge so still.
Everything prone to the power of will.
The sky speaks this morning
of sailors' dire warning,
a bleak blanket of pink stratus fill.
No heralding birds yet in flight.
No grazing wildlife yet in sight.
All is set, fixed in place.
The mood glued, somber-faced.
When a windless whip wings wisps of white.
What was that? Went between the tops
of trees, a movement without stops?
Such a purposeful flow.
Now it's gone, where'd they go?
Ghostly march of up-side-down mops.
There they are, parading by,
above the water, not up in sky.
A schedule their own,
down the cold, river-bone.
They follow, they never ask why.
So strange is this opposition,
a contrasting coalition.
Though they go their own way,
they are a part of this play.
There is justice in juxtaposition.
Photo by Mar Startari, 2019