City on a Hill

Mountains are splicing the horizon.
It darkens early; the stronger light
gleams off reflective ice in the
snowy creek, albino snake.
Its white belly, full
of drowned mice, minnows.
A culvert is a burrow,
a rivulet that smelling tongue.
Evening's end, and night
makes a darker reptile.
What could crawl in this winter?
Lamps along the bridge,
a boy’s flashlight: without sky—
the stars, or dusty moon—
everything visible is under beams
and cones. Willamette barely flows,
the blue sky aglow. Without
neighbors, like apostles, the
city on a hill declares
itself for miles.