4
Nothing gives itself up like water.
To see it in a lake
pocked by rain
you would never know.
Not just that it leaps blind
off a ledge
onto rocks,
but that it never
resists anywhere
it is flung, bent,
lifted, wrenched,
shattered to
drops, to mist,
spun,
held back, and
again let go
down.
*
Stone-stepping
across a creek,
I miss my footing,
slip in over my boot-top.
A trout splashes up and over.
His way, my stumble,
out of my element.
*
Sleek milk glass
shin deep
by twenty yards wide.
*
In a shallows over rust-streaked gray rock
trailing feathers of lime moss,
a faintest lattice of wave,
light and moving water
pool-shiver,
back-current shimmy,
fish,
no fish.
Wherever there is water.
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