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tylikThis morning, while dawn was still grey,
screamed sirens, rising and falling cries,
coming in from all around, across the bridge overhead,
east and west along the streets following the canal,
circling, it seemed, like a storm of sobbing wind.
I burrowed deeper into my pillow and wondered why it did not end.
Hours later, getting ready for the market,
I heard the sirens again, was pulled for a moment into
that morning fear and misery. I carried my bicycle
and a bag of garage to the road, to find it occupied
by cars and trucks and lights flashing red and white
and every way blocked by yellow ribbons.
The fireman says "A jumper." And I register, then,
a mound the size of a person between two plastic tarps,
and I thread my way around the trucks and under the ribbon
to the trail, and remember for a moment all the many stories,
behind us, around us, around the corner or out of reach,
unnoticed. The wind pulls tears from my eyes.
Two miles later, there is another siren,
lonely and shrill, coming along the same road, passing me
red and white ambulance racing for the hospital.
And I wonder, could it be you? Do they trick themselves to hope,
is there some other chapter for that still shape in the road.
Or do they sometimes sound the sirens, mourning for the dead.
Another draft, awfully rough, but I wanted to get that down while it was fresh in my mind. Someone jumped off the Aurora bridge late this morning, landing in the street where the b-g crosses northlake, right in front of the wharf. I had just gotten back from the Tilth plant sale, and was heading out to the farmer's market. I have no idea what the sirens were early this morning.
screamed sirens, rising and falling cries,
coming in from all around, across the bridge overhead,
east and west along the streets following the canal,
circling, it seemed, like a storm of sobbing wind.
I burrowed deeper into my pillow and wondered why it did not end.
Hours later, getting ready for the market,
I heard the sirens again, was pulled for a moment into
that morning fear and misery. I carried my bicycle
and a bag of garage to the road, to find it occupied
by cars and trucks and lights flashing red and white
and every way blocked by yellow ribbons.
The fireman says "A jumper." And I register, then,
a mound the size of a person between two plastic tarps,
and I thread my way around the trucks and under the ribbon
to the trail, and remember for a moment all the many stories,
behind us, around us, around the corner or out of reach,
unnoticed. The wind pulls tears from my eyes.
Two miles later, there is another siren,
lonely and shrill, coming along the same road, passing me
red and white ambulance racing for the hospital.
And I wonder, could it be you? Do they trick themselves to hope,
is there some other chapter for that still shape in the road.
Or do they sometimes sound the sirens, mourning for the dead.
Another draft, awfully rough, but I wanted to get that down while it was fresh in my mind. Someone jumped off the Aurora bridge late this morning, landing in the street where the b-g crosses northlake, right in front of the wharf. I had just gotten back from the Tilth plant sale, and was heading out to the farmer's market. I have no idea what the sirens were early this morning.
