At Moot Point
Edward Wilson

                  Pamlico River, Washington, N.C.

At dawn, mullet slap
the river.  Here.  There.
Hardly enough breeze
to wrinkle it awake.

Trees on the far shore—
the ragged hem of sky
(up before me and walking
away into forgetful blue).

Late last night at
the end of the dock  water
wide enough  gentle
enough to rock each star.

Now it offers up cloud.

A gull.  A dog.  A light
plane nattering the air-
port. A single halyard
strumming a mast.

I don’t see anyone.  Sun
starting to warm my back
like a father’s hand.

The mountains are a good way
that way. The sea, this way.
Here, the river is wide
and slow and calm.

Return to Spring 2015 Table of Contents