River
by Davis McCombs
The river is a wondrous machine. Haunt
of the Moon’s changing face, it drifts among
the knobs and foothills: there, deep and fluid;
here, rippling over gravel beds. The water
swims with flesh- walleye, minnow. From nights
foggy and indeterminate rise mornings
when the Sun burns like a scald. On its banks
frogs pipe, the grass bends and rustles. It is
the singularity of chance and the shuffle
of things, stone basins where the chaff I’ve cast
on waters in the Cave emerged some several
hours hence. From the high stone bluffs nearby,
the water shines with an inner light-
makeshift, shifting, a candle in the current.
(From Ultima Thule, by permission)