Southbound Amtrack

As the train sends ripples into the Hudson, I imagine bloodwood
carvings awakening beneath the surface to be baptized in mud,

to commune with an assembly of tadpoles. I think of the components
of a river when I am traveling, but more often now as the Mississippi

and the Colorado recede. I remind myself it’s impolite to wonder
out loud about doom, but I remember during the pandemic

when a haze, brought about by wildfires in California and Oregon,
swallowed Brooklyn like a ravenous ghost. Golden light passes

through the windows of the train cars, passes through 
the water. In its searching, the sun sees only itself.

— WILL KEEVER

Will Keever is a Brooklyn-based poet originally from the leather stocking region of New York State and currently attends Johns Hopkins University for an MS in Science Writing. Will likes to take walks in the park and pet good dogs, whom he refers to as earth angels.