Mill-Dam
IT LAYS its ears back, starts to run
Head-down toward its silver fun,
Streaking toward the finish gun
Of its own thunder.
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 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.
Another, another, left and right,
Till all of it avalanches bright,
One weave of wonder.