Slow dawn over the bridge
a dark gray sky that dreams

of other colors, softly, dully,
mirrored in the window panes

of flat-faced houses perched
on hills that descend precipitously

into the lake, so still
this morning, no trace

of movement, no speedboat wake,
no curl of smoke, nothing

to indicate life save the houselights,
so warm and abstract

at this distance—
the bridge span then

extends into a tunnel
clear passage that obscures

the obscure ones, like when
will it turn from night to day