Daybreak

The far shore's lights, amber and white, are masts
reaching into the river, their tips whiffled
by wind. Real masts, askew, pierce reefs of cloud;
trees cast black moss on the waters. Nearby,
the floating birds I strain to see, lift
honking, into an airborne silhouette.
Beyond the bridge, the marker buoys still wink
green or crimson. A surge of gulls blends with
the tide's unmisted grey — one straggler
lit by Florentine gold as the sun pours
a sacramental pillar into the river,
which dimples as a fish tastes air, casts
silver shawls under a heron, is
a smocked cloak behind a canoeist's oar.