Anne White
A slice of light climbs out of bed
And stretches up behind the hills
A contrail snakes across the sky
Eastward bound to Boston or Paris
An eagle circles white head shining
Long haul freight train crawls
Along the riverbank with haunting cry
Some ninety-nine, a hundred cars
Windows on the river train
Binoculars on barge and tug
Bucking wind and tide incoming
What’s the hurry?
Time will wait.
Or will it?