Perhaps a branch breaks from the second cypress 
beside the one-lane road that drops to the boathouse.
Still, the tree’s taut torso remains beautiful, attentive—
wind’s masterpiece. Perhaps the owl must shift 
her nest an inch, but this is not change.

Perhaps the sea comes in close, whips a little land away
while the view retains each flute and scallop
carved into the shore. The seal may tuck against her mate
a little tighter, but this is not change.

And perhaps the lichen gains another shingle 
on the boathouse roof, or loses one to storm—it still contains 
the brightest greens against the dark. And the vetch 
may twine a little higher up the hemlock—it’s still the same. 

Today is mist without headlines. The bellow of the foghorn
from the north carries all the news we can believe. Even 
the vultures—especially the vultures—know more than we do. 
They line the railings of the pier, wings stretched like laundry.

And while the river you cannot dip into twice may swell
or dry, this is not change. But without the sea or cypress
balancing the landscape, memory stalls. How many generations
before all names disappear? Ephemera, evaporate, 
I am the river, and I am not.