The wind blows, and the river I know, I don’t know,
changing with the season, cooler days, nights, a surface
raked with sprays. I’ve seen these changes —
my eyes have sometimes been open.
Yet, each day brings a new one, with all that
I remember and have forgot. Yesterday,
the river dropped, so many days without rain.
It sounds the same, rushing through its riffles,
running green when it’s a wonder there’s water
at all, snow long gone from the mountains, lightning,
fires, still it flows. The river I know is fuller, faster,
and clouds of mayflies swarm. Fish come
to the surface to feed, braving eagles and ospreys.
Now, grasshoppers buzz in the sage, and ants fly.
The barometer rises, but no fish.
It’s like the river holds only stones. But it’s good
not to know. Thinking I know can keep me from
seeing. Yesterday, I thought I saw the land
for the first time. At first light, the benches glaciers
carved shone clear as day, eons in a moment.
I think to stand in the same place as before but not
as before. Fog blankets what surely is the river.
By noon, it lifts. The valley is gold, lost in smoke,
historic. Home.
— Keith Shein