In twilight the river came Sighing, sweeping, fresh. Stuttering dawn flared palely, With just enough wick to scritch Midnight waters into day, and usher them Into glassy existence once again; Troughs and shadows among the gems Astound the verdant vertices. . . . Then dying afternoon struck heightened whites From the pulsing wave, over and over-- Too bright to look at, too hot To sit in the shade, feet in the water. . . . Now night's arriving eyelid seals the river All-at-once in nothingness. I am here, now, without it. Sighing, sweeping, fresh.