Water flows through its toes—

wades in depressions 
made in mud and rock face, and

tonight, loons call an all too human trill set sail
on easy fishing round the reeds.

You cast and imagine you cast a camera. 
Capture the trout with a few exposures. 

A gourmand sears it on film of truffle butter,
opens the foil under hushed, red lights,

finds all to taste—the gentle savor 
of a developing palette. 

But you are exhaled to a peace
buried by this river in the rise 

and rushed call of disorientation,
its slip-grab complications

of whizzing fish darting— 
your clothes whisked away by a flood current.

Now you’re naked as a minnow in the dark—