Crossing a river becomes a picture of crossing a life. The speaker begins on a muddy bank that seems to swallow his feet, and he admits he is half willing to be pulled under. The river itself is a letdown: shallow, listless, more like a gap between banks than flowing water. Spotting a single bird gives him a burst of hope, and he feels his own life has meaning again.
That hope fades as he steps into the water. It is lukewarm and indifferent, and the stones beneath it feel slimy and mocking. He moves carefully, but the current strengthens, the potholes deepen, and he panics as whirlpools form and the water rises. Then he sees that the bird is a vulture, smiling calmly as it feeds on a dead man. The mood moves from weary resignation to hope, then to fear. The final image, the bank's eyes glittering under a harsh, shadeless sun, leaves a cold sense that life offers no comfort and no shelter.