The river loosens its jaw in February,
all ice-teeth unclenching.
I walk out to the overpass,
boots loud against the iron ribs,
and below me a crow lifts from
the carcass of a deer, spine bright as
a violin bow.

I should not be here,
watching what the thaw uncovers—
beer cans, rusted bicycle,
the animal we all forgot until
its bones began to sing.

What is it to return?
Snowmelt finds old gullies,
shapes them open again,
as if remembering were a kind of
erosion. I press my hand
against the railing, chilled steel
saying only: hold on.