Pigeon waltzes the trail on one foot and one little nub.
Mallards and their escaped domestic kin and the bright,
rasping horns of Canada geese in false spring, in glacier-
turquoise water. Hundreds and hundreds of sharps sinking
into the banks. Nests of clothes. Tents. Tarps. Broken trees
helped down the slope with chainsaws. Water rainbow-slicked.
The salt-spackled ground. The farmed transplants, the white-
bread crumbs. Up the bank: courthouse, hockey arena,
brutalist government tower, city museum, wind.
                          Down here, the fork in the river. The sacred.