breaking the silence
the broken bridge weathered
timber cracked how is it I hear
your father's boat slicing
the water deep in
the bitterroot
slope

perhaps it
is just a creak
in the tired
birch
or

perhaps
the hours have passed and
nodding eyes cannot wait with such
bracelets of sorrow yet I over slept the
mourn hoping to find you in my dream
so often a kind of kaleidoscopic beauty
has such infinite variety disclosed to
the slumbering eyes in a slowly
evolving movement in the
early dawn when
every sound
appears
audible
even to the
soft spilling breeze
where the creek lies with
the snow grasping limbs
of laden bridge