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.