Falling for the River’s Course

A river come down

from the hanging swamps and Antarctic beech.

Down to the foot of the mountains

where it slows a little,

makes a wider channel—a wreckage of rocks—

bridged, here and there, by fallen blue-gums.

The bed of the river conducts:

stone by stone, each one

a heightened moment; the broken ankle that might

have been.

A fear of falling

and a love of flight, we’re running like a river—

our steps and leaps make like a rapids,

and we pass from light into dark, and stop

by a clear pool to smell

the earth in the air.

We’re trusting the same sequestered

traces that guide a migratory bird,

or this eel, who will sense the way back

to her breeding grounds.