You have seen it while hiking,
Whether you walk energetically or drag your feet on the gravel path,
You have heard it asking questions.
And whether you carry half your wardrobe in a pack or travel light,
You have come to its bridge or its bank.
You have seen it swirl, caught in its own undertow.
“How can I go on,” it asks, “and leave the mountain spring behind?
I was a pupil and a lover there and every molecule of me
is stamped with the memory of belonging; of holding on and being held.
I loved those cold depths.”
You have sat by the side of this stream.
“Did I fill it too full?” you have heard it wonder. “Did I do something wrong,
to cause the mountain to cast me out?
This cannot be the justice I was promised.
How can I go on?” it asks
as it goes on.
You have followed its cascades as it rushes over rocks and into canyons.
Whether you run to listen or walk slowly, watching the Catskill eagles soar,
You have overheard its questions and caught snatches of the answer.
“I learned to be swift and supple,” it whispers. “And to overflow.
And if overflowing means leaving high coldness for the warmth of the valley and the sea,
I will leave it. But,” it sings, “in every molecule of me I retain
the best and truest parts of that place. Once I belonged to it, but now I have made it my own.
As it pushes me away I will mourn for it, but I will bless it.
I will bless it and I will go.”