Fog drifts along the palisades, pouring through dark firs
at the crest. The light is gravestone on the slough. Herons

are out of sorts, standing on pilings instead of mud,
keeping their long legs dry. The wind is contrary, headed

the opposite way from the river. If you put your ear down 
to the rising water, you will hear what is coming to my heart.

It makes the same sound as granite, scraping down
from the mountains in the cold depths of the current;

sometimes, like the muffled tumbling of a deep snag,
years working its way downstream, where it will surprise

fishermen who have never had trouble casting there. If you
have never heard it before, still, you will know why I have been

forgetful of ordinary courtesies, and why I get up before
dawn and check how many apples have fallen. Then you,

too, will know to be wary; and, like the herons, you
will find somewhere to stand above the foreseeable tide.