I had a word cupped in my hand, or was it a thought? Now it's gone, replaced by that spangle of river water jouncing over driftwood before it flattens to gray, moves in slabs under the reflections of cumulus fleece. There's a stitch in my chest that some might call pain but it's gone as quickly as the hare that skitters across the rocky basis at the bottom of the levee. Hiding. That is its way-and my heart's way too-to flee in starts, then stop to tremble. The horseheads and wild snapdragons curl in my hand where I wanted a poem instead. Or those two swooping hawks made a nest in my breast. The river runs flat, but the darkness beneath surges under a wrinkle of light which beckons like a curled finger, fresh water to the waiting sea.