WHISTLING SHADE


Mill Creek at Plainville

by Nancy Carol Moody

The water in its ancient turning

churns its foam over jut and boulder,

 

augurs new and infinite departures.

 

This, a story that’s been told before—

upstream not a place

 

but a way of pushing against yourself.

 

A rock does not bear a name,

but knows enough to say, Make something

 

of yourself by resisting me.

 

Water like an eel, sidewinding the current.

Water like cling wrap’s crinkled obfuscation.

 

Water like a whistle, boring through.

 

Eventually something has to give.

The unimpeachable leaf will tell you

 

how the water only takes.