The simple contact of the stream,
A touch of ice which fell as rain
And soaked the paws of hunting wolves.
A mix of mists condensed on ferns.
The breath of trees through ancient leaves
Which hid a thousand goshawk nests,
And oaks on oaks have hidden more,
And added streams to other streams.
Around the fish the waters flow,
And through the water spectrum’s bend,
And in those prisms histories meld,
And through those pasts the fish still breathe.
I run my fingers through the stream,
And all is now, and always was.