A river crosses every dream, fills holes
in every story. The long return of sunlight
after rain and foul weather. The translation
of lightning into a tongue anyone can understand,
common talk of bread and spring water,
of sudden sunlight and the flight of hummingbirds
south some three thousand miles.
Magnets turn from pole to pole, north
to south to north again.
A river divides white pine from bank to bank;
the sturgeon sleeps in depths like the body
of time itself. The spell of old shaman in scales
a hundred years old. They nose the depths for a new
light that has sound and smell, lateral line,
a sudden time, a sudden change, a reversal,
an altered manifest. Listed under the same last
name as we are listed, floating here mid-current
The fissures cracked and singing in the face of rock.
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