February, White River Junction

A sub-zero trudge two miles before dawn,
my knee stiff, aching, I stop cold
on the bridge. A riveting cacophony
rises up from below,
a susurration and hum:
ice battering ice in a fast channel.
Downstream, somewhere
far out in the gloom where
this river flows into the larger
comes an ominous snap,
a seismic shift amid
intractable glacial shelves. 
There is only the slightest 
smudge of light in the east, 
nothing you can hold on to.
Yet high above the freezing fog 
an invisible crow announces,
raucous and undaunted,
the rebirth of the world.