The Guadalquivir in August
by Jeffrey Alfier
For now, this river grows only silence:
embankment walls beveled
with first light, stone stairs that dip
to its smoke-green glissando.
The sun begins its hard lock on the streets.
By noon, every doorway will be threshed
On Isabell’s bridge, someone still sings
last night’s ballads. I want to join
in, but a raw tongue and dry throat
have stolen the words I need.
The river conducts its first traffic.
Crows appear unsummoned
like blown cinders. I watch
the bridge, the errant singer