THE RIVER
Once I gurgled with a hiss In the glacier’s cold abyss. Dull and muffled was my song As I felt my way along Through the mystic caves of glass Far below the great crevasse. Now I greet the blessed light, Out of night and bursting white— Baby-giant—keen to forge, Loudly laughing, through the gorge; Straddling rocks and riding bumps, Brushing branches, hurdling stumps, Peevish, boiling, sluggish, slack, Lunging forward, swirling back; Leaping from a bouldered dale, Snaking through a clay-banked swale, Draining streams from every draw Down into my hungry maw, Swelling with the tribute paid— This is how a river’s made.