ANNIVERSARY
Ten years since my father died, and fifteen if I make it
til I reach his age. Huddled
against the wind. So I walk through a remnant forest
along the high ridge that skirts Manhattan
Harlem and Hudson's confluence below me. Muddy sky
mud-colored water, a chop on the surface and a litter of branches
after two days of blowdown, but the wind is dry now
and sucks at the ground and a dull shimmer toward sunset says
these clouds are passing.
Now to the south a break and for a moment light strikes
the inlet, twixt tides now, a silver shoal in the midst thereof reflects
both sky and forest, and the gulls walk
as upon the sky. A tree down athwart the path, its roots
broken from the soggy hillside. Over and down
and continue homewards.
And wow, the clouds have passed
and golden light streams in from the south
for the hour that's left til sunset.
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