-April in the morning-

the young jogger who vanished

below the southernmost dip

of Gardners Neck Road where

Mount Hope Bay lies radiantly
after an early morning fog evaporated

in its calming attitude, hasn't jogged her way back.

there is no passage northward

as the short branching roads to the east,
end at the waterline and to the west are landlocked

in their sleepy dead-ends and culs-de-sac

which means she has to return this way,
passing the westside windows of the house.

maybe she stopped at the head of the meadow

laying low at the banks of the Taunton where it flows

into the mouth of the Bay, to rest and hydrate.

as to the lay of the land, in the short

distance southward, the Mount Hope Bay Bridge

is softly brushed, its steel-grey span in pantomime

against the horizon linking Portsmouth to Bristol.

further south, the Newport bridge
spans the narrows over Rhode Island Sound
too distant to be seen, but one can indulge

in the imagery of its great suspension, linking

Newport to Jamestown.

as of now, I anticipate her return; ––the digital
mechanism strapped to her wrist
recording the agitated pulse of her blood, the strung
auburn ponytail swinging eastward and westward

across her back keeping time between the river and Providence,

her tank-top wet with sweat, the skin glistened,

the sound of her running soles slapping the pavement

upon an otherwise silent, save the outer movement in birdsong,

Gardners Neck Road.


 Swansea