IT LAYS its ears back, starts to run
Head-down toward its silver fun,
Streaking toward the finish gun
Of its own thunder.
I mean the river, just before
It merges with the mill-dam’s roar,
And has a scant two seconds more
Before its blunder.

It preens itself, it smooths its hair,
It would arrive unruffled there.
Its frontlet is a diamond flare.
It looks down under.

And now a strand of it streaks white,
Another, another, left and right,
Till all of it avalanches bright,
One weave of wonder.