Kids (topography to scale)

wringing full, I'm still watching years and decades run the sculpting river– banks, bentsands,

oxbows abandoned

center of gravity grandeur ever substantially not seen, round a bend not yet bent; not

just them, them a fair piece to them.

the soon sheened end of the paddle, dripped and dug deep and just ahead out of sight,

stroke and stroke and stroke

ripple like a forest woolly sprung. spring to spring, across the delves and hills-- a grander

declaration, vibrance 

over the craggy stolidness bundles up as ridges and mounts. A narrowed threaded wash 

winds through the wide and wild

riffle murmurs, rocks gurgle, skree chatters hard to hear, torn talus shouts the clear plunge

pools sending smooth from sheer

bright noon brilliant ductilities rolling from the sun imperceptibly– deep as night, even

dredging roots and ruttings

love to scale, lives not my life– knit my quick. More ink! More map! Chuckles bounce back.

watersheds as I bedraggle, on to sea.