Sometimes I still find myself in dreams
on the wobbly wooden walkway scaffolded
to the side of the old Sauk bridge, gripping
my mother’s hand. The abandon
of the wind toys with her locks,
the black Cs of her bangs are caught up
in the same mock and havoc as the ends
of the red fringed scarf tied
in a knot under her chin. I am counting on
her oblivious gait, that she is not fazed
as the whole structure tremors with traffic, this behemoth uneasy,
asleep on a limb over the rush of the river, the river one vein
of the world it cut open, its prey.

Jan Carroll is a freelance writer and proofreader, a facilitator of small poetry-writing groups, and a Unitarian lay minister. A chapbook titled River is now available at The Local Store. She has always lived near one river or another.