In Midstream
I am thinking of rivers.
They are one of the things that I love
most in this world.
Many of them I have fished,
though many of the ones I have waded
produced nothing but memories.
The icy water of Yellowstone’s
Fire Hole River flows around me now.
Tomorrow she’ll be a memory like
the memory of the Rogue, the Madison,
the Missouri or the Deschutes- all waters
that have felt my waders, tasted my fly,
lifted my spirits, and sung to me.
Tomorrow the swift current
of another river will bless me,
baptize me in her roaring riffles-
connect me to all that have flowed
before and after her.
I listen to her tenderly.
She calls me with her music
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