The sun nearly set,
he swam across the river —
calmly, quietly.

Hawks pass back and forth,
their calls bounce and hide in the trees
and in the river.

Sunlight seeps into
the soft bed of the river —
we could lie in it.

His nose is awake —
under every green leaf,
sadness and delight.

This river is me,
I could shape it with my hands,
minnows for the heart.

Hawks and kingfishers
make rounds above the river
while we change below.

His singular song
saved for this April forest —
up down and up down.

He stood on a rock,
huge on the river bottom,
then stepped in the flow.

A pair of mallards
like sentinels in springtime —
eggs at river’s edge.

Reedy and intent,
his song is automatic —
Robin in springtime.

Their wake breaks shadows
cast across cold spring pools —
duck pair in April.

Ducks swim in spring pools,
their beaks reflected make four —
above and below.

To friends healing well,
writing good and bad poems,
some peace being found.

Light on the river,
Whitman, Frost, and Oliver
have been here before.

Two geese in the sun,
one fishes and one stands guard,
hearing us pass by.

March pulls out the seeds
from the field of dried seed husks —
the sun dazes us.

The woods are all tracks
leading to the cold river
in blue-shadowed-snow.

Mute swan in winter,
she’ll take company of ducks
in the cold river.

The light starts to fade,
golden across the river —
deer stand still, hidden.

One with neck folded,
two swans with their young signet,
like feathered ice floes.