Once a place of crossing,
  on this sensuously and
precariously warm
February day
I have come to be still,
and to watch, and to listen.

Shadows of trees,
so immensely tall,
stay oddly motionless
under green river water,
even as the surface
moves and swirls
carrying itself ever onward.

Leaves and mud are newly wet;
walking is softer, soundless.

Below the path winding upwards,
melted ice sings again as water.

I drink in its sound, soul diving
heart first into perfect, liquid treasure.