A bird spills its codes into the air,
resting in the long arms of a tree.
You, stranger bird,
who set you singing
in the secret leaves of coming summer?
It’s busy work, stitching the sky to the river.
Some think the job’s done
when cloudy stories turn the great wheel
and currents sweep deep disturbances.
But as the river shoulders its way to the sea,
the pattern’s still weaving.
Foam is written on the water,
calligraphy, a certain alphabet peculiar to
this river of specificities.
Rain is coming.
Mountains shrug against the horizon.
A branch shudders with its burden.
Eddies swirl in the water.