All eyes are on the river,
like a fire in winter’s hearth
they gaze upon it.

Last year the river was low,
so low the ice could not hold it.
The mud would push the frost away
night after night, refusing its advances;
and it stayed right through summer.

But now the sun has pressed the snow
and the river is new again.
The mud has moved downstream.

Children ride their bikes.
Robins land in the trees;
and we walk
arm-in- arm again with the wind
as it moves us ever closer
to the bay.

By Brian Michael Tracy