It was not the destination but the act
of movement I was after. I dove
into the mountain lake swollen with snowmelt.
There are so many ways to move: a man
crossing a quick creek on stones,
arms out to the sides, waist high,
like an ungainly bird afraid of wetting its wings,
the way he moves, and then the way he moves
when one of the stones under him suddenly moves.
Or the way syllables of dust
drift in the windowlight, turning
together in a dance without partners
and never touch but spin in
and out of my sight…
A boat rushes toward the rapids,
a flock of birds, like a single being, takes to the wing,
a school of small fish flickers
just beneath the surface of the stream.
(kz 1986) (Timberline)