For the bridge shoal.
Four dozen or so, counted slow
by the old stone bridge,
heaving traffic held in selfish jams
and on flyovers, none the wiser,
while gathered as a group trowel,
sifting in a huddle, dense,
sizes, four to fifteen pound around,
each large as a pup or foal,
drifting by crippled water-turf
shaking in the straight, broad flow.