First Light At this hour the river is full of the night. The last-song kids cross paths with the early shift, the moon loosens its grip on the sky. Stillness, a twist of salt, and on black wings a shag beats its way upstream. Factory noise, the first headlights of cars and wheezing into view, the first bus. The driver is your father in another life, his jaw set like the route he will take all spring, and this the only crossing for miles. David Tait ii. iii. iv. |