All the river has turned away from summer
has turned into November,
hushed and suddenly silent in fall
hushed and held and poled by trees
pushing their reflections down under
to arch and autumn of waters
The fisherman crouches alone
between the Sycamores,
and casts and casts again
into the river come down the Alleghenies,
come down plain and big and brown
He probably knows this river is a promise
a tribute to him there
in the cold brushing of air,
himself the catch of rivers
himself the fish
unaware ²