This buckling rust is pledged

         to touch

              the bedrock of the bank

         in two tender spots,

    and there she clings,

         a caress for the stone

    as it stretches

        to spread a gap —

      the landscape’s labors,

        its love

            for its waters

    She is a mother

        to carry my footsteps,

             just as those

        early Spring waters

            shed their ice

        and shepherd along

            the shad and sunny

    The writer may have rendered

        your home

            a quiet place, but

        hark! the gravel

            crunches in the distance

                and the geese

        alight, weary

and ready to dine.

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