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

Maria Startari-Stegall