Crossing the Connecticut River


Crossing the Connecticut River

A day of rain
in February and
from the bridge
in Sunderland,
the river—
broad and flat
and grey
like gunmetal,
and in parts,
sheening—
the trim of trees
along both banks,
drab plum and
pigment of iron—
very lovely,
very steel,
like a lithograph
in some
 old tome—tombed
for posterity.