Floodplain

The river floods and chokes
out the van you now stand next to
knee deep in muddy water
not sure what to do next.
The water is cold; it’s early spring.
The sky is a gray pothole
and the clouds are black ice.

In the floodplain of the river
there could be crocuses,
maybe skirting the trunks
of a whole row of trees,
there, in the waterlogged
riverside park you can see
but can’t reach, your steps
slowed by the suck and pull
of thick mud, and beneath
the mud, frozen ground.

In the park, the wooden posts
of outdoor exercise bars
peek above the water
and if only you could grab one
to pull yourself along.

Maybe the tree trunks
are playing hide and seek?
Each tree is a child,
each tree could be
your own child even,
half crouched in the river
that makes a shitty cover
that makes a shitty mirror.

Each tree is a child pretending,
and each bird circling the floodplain
looking for a place to land—
each bird is another child
holding a loaded gun.