Upriver, it begins to unfold from Erie’s mouth
and before it falls at Table Rock
today
an old woman leans on her rake handle waiting
for her husband’s Greek cap to peak the bank.
A gull combs the river with yellow eye,
swerves, dips, drops and carries off a
fingerling
in vice-grip beak, flogs the air with
outstretched wings
to rise above the willows, silver scales
flashing.
All day on the grassy slope above the pebbled
shore
an empty car parks beside a pair of men’s
oxblood loafers
size ten, inside the right shoe a
wallet
with driver’s license and a wrist-watch at
half-past four
