Muddied, like the certain brackish river water
laden with broken branches, swirled silica,
the crushed styrofoam something colored yellow.
Gray clouds hesitated overhead, as I can,
and me there, thinking
of those spiritualists after yet another war.
People were seeking, and they provided–
knocks on tables, automatic writing.
I sat there sinking. The air, thick
with something about to come.

If I were to put my pen to paper then–
the drift of car across the Valley View Ferry
could have taken me downriver
and toward the poem I meant to write.