Again the carload of children
the sharp landing bell and the foam
between us and the low shore.
Our breath was taken by the wind’s fanfare,
performing clouds, great ferries
and small craft greeting on the watery
midway, bright things flapping
gulls like calliopes and the sun
breaking up in laughter
over the clowning waves
And coming home, the children
singing or sleeping, the mystery
of moongold and boatlights flaring
on the black mirror of the York
the wait at the landing the bump
the rumbling off-and-aboard of cars
and then departure into that
ancient tide long since spanned
with steel: no feeling now the soft
swell, the profound river sigh.