Deltas

Things in this mirror may appear closer than they
really are, the way what we’ve left behind often
does. A slough; a canebrake; shell roads. A sump;
failing plane trees; glass encrusted alleys. Looking
back across those deltas—differences más o meno
a lifetime, rounding errors a few moments or an
age—questions arise with no scaffold of words.
Faint music; a wind soughing beneath a bridge; all
the creeks braiding into rivers. Set the chain, and
I’ll pull the come-along tighter. Ratchet by ratchet,
let’s see if we can draw those far mountains close.