Does the water know
it sparkles in the sun?
Do those hard grey stones bruise as the rapids rush by?
Cold in the deep,
warm in the shallows–
is the heavy depth of stillness
quiet like sleep?
Such a long journey from bubbling spring
to vast ocean
must be tiring.
(See the spines of the fish, rainbow treasures of scales sloughed off
as a gift in the water.)
What tree’s deep roots reach into the muddy
pulling molecules of water from beneath the surface to the top, green leaves glistening…
The water’s voice–shall it rise in anger over the sharp edges of the rock ledge,
pooling down below–
dwindle to a murmur
past the pebbles of the shore’s edge,
lapping against the canoe
laid to rest on the sand
as we picnic in the sun, by the sparkling, oblivious water.