A poem roots, and I look for a rock
to rest my head on something difficult,
a trunk for flight-weary legs.

I sit finally on the bank,
with a sense of finality,
making a lasting impression
on the wet earth
whose fecundity paints
violet trail blazes.

The violence of the river to my left I find comforting.

Who am I to set a leaf adrift?
I dare not look this upturned tree
in the shimmering mirror.
Rotors beat the sky hard.
I can’t help
to turn away and see the process —
rock, roots, death and beetles —
wait comfortably for the next flood.