It begins at the river and ends at the river,
whether or not the river has disappeared.

I move with this morning’s scudding magenta-
hemmed clouds; earth a deep brown, runnels
wavering down its center.

The river's arteries stream with green algae.
A young runner, leaps across, rock by rock;
an older man, a dead branch balancing him,
steps on the tricky steppingstones.

Someone stands on the other shore staring
at me from under a wide-brimmed hat; then
yells, "whatever / it was I can't say anymore
to anyone."

 

whatever: R. Creeley. From, "When It Comes..."