Lion Gate

Cars sound like rustling leaves
below me, under
the bridge of stone
the leaves roll down the centre
on, by and over the line

shaking in the trees,
a hawk has made himself known
and the memory of a great white owl
silently flying
wide -winged overhead follows me
as
the trees reflect yellow in the river, small
rapids,
no tides
just flowing forward out of the mountains across the prairies and to the sea. I think.