I drive to the river dreaming of words, but do not chase the slow, golden curve of dawn. Instead, I’m on a point of sound, between a leaf blower determined to remove fall’s debris and the deep boom of a shotgun determined to remove some other part of the season.
The sky is a grey, empty page.
A cold fog drifts like wreckage into the shore. Fingers of shadow and mirror tremble the river’s calm. The crooked spine of a branch arches towards me and this moment. You and I like boxers with no audience: no longer duped into needing each other, unlacing our gloves, knowing victory and defeat are the same, no longer dream mercenaries.