Reggatta Field: Mallards on top, carp below

I dare not speculate

on brown grass or cat-tails;
gulls creeping on the frayed edges
of April's heavy cotton;
the sentience of brown field mice
strolling about before the coon cat awakens;
or the sloppy French kisses of rainwater
along the river bank.

Nearby,
the falls crush the flotsam that dawdles by
in an un-choreographed dance with destiny;
a man in a black canvas overcoat watches
with glittering onyx eyes the place
i might have fallen
and...
a fretful hoary bitch nibbles her hoary brown pit
then barks for want of un-stuttered routine

The slippery stones hewn so long ago
to define the boundaries of her boundless rage are
drowned
my feed are solid beneath me, but for another sunless day
what other un-gilded, un-flown flag will flagellate the foul breeze
I can not know
and so

The river will rise.
The gates will fall.
and I

I will be dry.