Crumbling of Bridges

The milky edges
of the fog
trace heavenly fingers
along the lusty curves
of the river.

These sermons are damp and wet,
wanting the cool of August nights
to burn off and fly away before 
chill of  morning,naked and looking
for morning

like the cutting
of the raven's wing before flight
and the crumbling of bridges

--the last swim
before the water
and winter frees.