The river of my friend
by her house of stone and wood
runs mintgreen,
fresh as Scotch whiskey
jumps in the mouth.
In dark night by the tumbled current
we step along the silver trail
that streaks straight through a cedar lane --
the rail of long-passed train
that won't ride here again --
out toward the White Horse glacier,
a mounted ghost of ice ahead.
In early Spring without a moon
who gives a hoot:
owl or caboose who knows?
I hold her arm as if in fear.
Next morning's river
in sun and shade goes celadon
at forest's greenlit feet.
Moss muffles steps,
softens purposes to stream-like murmur,
the smooth discourse of worn companions.
By the damp path moist mushrooms glisten
and chartreuse flags Spring tags on twigs,
broad Ferris wheels of fern,
skunk cabbage yellow pistil lingams.
For rest, we find a granite throne
thrust in light out over the rush,
where back to back we reign
and read bibulous volumes
from the understream library of rock,
flume-white pages, opened tomes
spilled up in stony roil.
An island there, new-barred in crosstimbers
brought down on winter's cruel flood
ebbed in no more gentle Spring
on broken edge of new-shaped land.
Farther out, a boulder breaches,
a beast snout-first reaches for a surface gasp.
At my back, she strains face-up too,
stern-prowed monument to ambition,
chin jut sunward to break through to light.
Below us freshets rise,
fleeing chill and loud downstream,
frolicking over the tops of rocks
a rapid limpid litter,
pups that yip and snap
crossing wildly from bank to bank
after the laughing dark blue jay
that lifts, a flap of satin, from the stream.