No sound but what the water makes

On what it touches . . .

Rain cascading through leaves,

Leaves dripping on maple wings

That float in spinning swirls

To churn the swollen stream

Choking on weeds and twigs

That it spits into its rushing

Deeper in the leaning shadows

Of cottonwoods, barely-rooted

Reeds bending like the water,

Like the notes of bamboo flutes;

And the slippery mossy rocks

That I cross to the other side

Where I turn to find the stream

Already healed of my trespass.