Warm June sits upon the river
its sunlight always and all at once
upon the cold, clear water of the river.
You glide on oppositions of temperature
of mountain and basin. Between friction
is a middle that moves downstream easily.
It is the glassy tongue of the river
speaking a vernacular of smooth stones.
It is the midge sprinkled between banks.
What perceives them also moves
between the bars, slipping forward easily
a silent interlocutor, time’s looking glass
what orients itself by arranging groves
of coyote willows on either side of you,
borne along by meltwaters, warmed by June.