On a
stone bridge, over a fast-moving river
Stood a boy not yet five. Look
At him. He is not holding a red ball.
He is not thinking
About the bridge or the river. His hair
Moves a little in the wind.
His stillness, a blackbird—
Sometimes wind moves a blackbird’s feathers.
Anything could be near the boy.
A metal bucket left behind on the bridge,
Or a red rag caught at the end of a branch.
Old rope hanging from a tree.
Neither his mother or father are near him.
One of the hands at his side is closed
As if it held a small glass ball.
He hears the rushing river.
He knows the river wants him.
When he breathes his mouth makes a slight sound.
He remembers this sound from his bed at night—
Slipping into it, slipping out.
