.
If you get there early
At the break of dawn
At the first of spring
Then the river may reveal its mystery to you
And you, for a moment,
May know it as the Indians did
It must be cold then
Too cold for comfort
There must be edges of light ice remaining
In the high, hidden springs
And yet you must wade in
As if you lived there
And were impervious to its frigid bite
The leaves on the sycamore and birch
Must still be tiny and just unfolding
If you hear a car passing on the road above
Forget it, all is lost
The river will not speak
Unless its whisper is the only sound
If you do not disturb the deer
Drinking on the far bank
Then maybe, maybe
But you can never repeat
What your soul takes in
The English have no words for it
You’ll just have to go back to living normally
And hope for another moment
Cold, blue, and silent
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