The poisoned river, Where the banks are steep, Where the wind carries Shadows, lined pools of Dead fish and tires, I stood and watched, Leaning, the world stammers Against the quiet. In the creek, willows droop, Ripples swirl like thought, Across the surface; but underneath, The silent hulls are a world. The trickle belies What we take for granted, the water, Vibrant, alive in Darkness, hushed. The trees sigh out a story, and The air runs thick with echoes.

• Margaret Atwood