Sudden it hits you.
The view from the bridge
makes the rusting crane look small
and its reflection in the river
But the rusting crane is nothing. Soulless.
A massive angler built by hands
hauling man-killing slabs of steel.
Behind it is a trail of paper
and union rules
words without any of affection.
The seagull flying over is mightier.
Pumping wing mechanics
we have yet to master
she navigates by wind and star,
river-breeze and current.
The river is her personal highway
and stretching behind her
ten million miles of DNA
puppet string and chain.
She pulls them both
with the strength of ten thousand cranes
lifting generations over water
held by no reflections.