At the riverbank, beneath the bridge, a child plays in the saltgrass,
    sifts his hands through stem, laughing as if chasing

a frog through the brush. You do not want the child to know
    you are watching. You do not want the child to see

you longing for his happiness. This visible riverbed,
    this bridge built like a tipped wall. What you see is given

to you only as the dawn fog recedes. Along the guardrails
    of the bridge, the fog leaves behind its icy encasement.

A bird left by the V’s flying south cries in the wind’s wake.
    The snow will melt and swell the creek until

there will be no riverbed, no place for the child to play,
    and no child either—imagined ghost, glimpsed then gone.