River Talk

I listened attentively, for days,

to the language of the East River,

but at first I did not understand

its Gothic etymology

or the beavers’ accents. Was it

the wind rush or the bull elk’s low

or the magpie’s screech?

I could not know

until the hawk’s wings

came to rest in the branches

of the evergreen spruce tree.

Persistently, it wends it way,

in no particular hurry,

past the butte and flows out south

over stones strewn from the

Oligocene Epoch. And if you sit

and close your eyes, you may hear

Follow me. Follow me.

I’ll lead you to the sea.