shad season

another leaden sky

and the smell of diesel fuel in the morning.

yet a congregation gathers (or is it city council?)

and the herons are thick across the clouds

second only to cormorants

something has shifted

where my feet stood 

they no longer stand

though its the same gravel

mud, path, warm and full of bicycles

a swift torrent

overcomes most of the rocks I’ve come to know.

this is new - holes on river right, a zig zag down what used to be a straight

wave

and in a lower eddy, powerfully

sucking small branches around and around

silver shapes flash

dinner plate size with visible eyes and

sharp spines, at least a hundred if not more

potomac pyrannhas? 

they look hungry, swirling en mass in the powerful flow, bumping against the boat

and the paddle

where’s a fishing pole when you need one? or a frying pan (as McPhee would do it), 

the human otter hungers for the ocean flesh

the spring tide pushes the silver bodies upstream,
and yet more and more are coming,
an endless torrent into the eddy
and up around the flow.