The shattered granite banks of the Klamath
have been rounded by time—more time than I
can imagine, though I try—and water.
If the salmon would show themselves and were
in a talkative mood, they would tell me
something about patience, although perhaps
through their absence, they are still trying to teach.
This, I have down. I could stand in this cold
current all day, all year, forever; what
else could be this perfect? As an eagle
flies overhead and a pair of black bears
roam the shore; all I am missing are those
things that don’t matter, and you. Where are you?
How could things be so sublime and confused?
I have a lot to learn from this river.
The sharp edges of where whole escarpments
have sheared off from my heart have yet to be
smoothed over. Landslides unheard by others
in the night, but devastating in their
weight, await the healing touch of water.
Meanwhile, the cold stars are my confessors.