is where Elk
River falls
from a rocky
and considerable height,
turning pale
with trepidation at the lip
(it seems
from where I stood below)
before it is
unbuckled from itself
and
plummets, shredded, through the air
into the
shadows of a frigid pool,
so calm
around the edges, a place
for water to
recover from the shock
of falling
apart and coming back together
before it
picks up its song again,
goes sliding
around the massive rocks
and past
some islands overgrown with weeds
then
flattens out and slips around a bend
and
continues on its winding course
according to
the camper’s guide,
then joins
the Clearwater at its northern fork,
which in
time must find the sea
where this
and every other stream
mistakes the
monster for itself,
sings its
name one final time
then feels
the sudden sting of salt.
Billy Collins
