Spring Melt comes down from the mountains.
Pushing wood and rocks, bringing sand.
Sitting on a log, pushed down not long ago.
Seeing rocks, from other years.
The peaks are grey, not white.
And the first strands of grass emerge.
Sitting by the water
with Wormwood and Sagebrush.
The heat rising every day.
Things rise with it.
Nothing stops this river.
The log jams breathe with its flows.
We realize how connected things are
Yet we don’t see them whole—
The water rushing,
but moving slower than any mind.
Sitting in one place,
Letting other things think.