On rocks the minnow rapids dance,
And dippers walk beneath the play.
In silver skins of feathered air,
They take the sky and make it swim.
Between the flits of wide and shallow,
The river digs in deep and settles.
Its banks are full of martins’ burrows.
Its calms are ancient, cool and still.
And that’s the point where waters white
Are sucked into the mouths of trout,
Which hang, then turn and dart, then hang:
A momentary flash, then gone.
And through them all her singing flows:
The dipper, trout, the clouds, and time.