Plunge Pool Brookie
Dave Motes
The spiral space
is quiver-roar,
sputter shadow of
neutral suspended vortex.
Shopping
in little darts and leans, an occasional turn,
tilting tiny veers,
shifting in the pulse and buffet.
This chaos is sense,
need and source in one;
stone and shell and sand are lifted, whirling,
air and water charged together, pulled apart, him inside
alone coalesced.
Live by these mundane miracles of observation;
Caddis house plucked neatly from the swash, stones unseen;
mayflies found, leaves left;
dace and fly dodge and die, discerned against debris.
And in all this swash and roar, still,
seeing before seen he flees,
in alert angles away.
Little wonder then that the three worlds beg freedom;
Water and air, then still, confident still, on sand or stone,
vicious cool colors, confident eye, in my net,
even then knowing me against the background of junipers,
he speaks in tiny motions of the eye--
he sees me here and now, sees me hear him
say, do as you will, or will not,
return me to my cyclone.