Rachel Brownson
On either side of the river,
snow hangs off slick rocks,
gathering itself to fall
when it becomes
heavy enough.
The bridge holds still
above it, metal railing
pulling heat from bare hands.
Between white banks,
the water is flat, nearly frozen,
reflecting only the blank
dark of the covered sky—
if you stepped
off the bridge into that dark,
you could fall
asleep before you hit
the bottom.