Sowing Stones

Still as stone, by the riverbank
overlooking shimmering water,

you see two wolves streak across the meadow,
gray fur rippling in wind,

golden-rimmed irises focused on the path ahead—
through brambles of yellow stones and sagebrush.

Steam’s hot hiss, now a frozen rush, mud pots
and geysers, volcanic breccias scattered like giant seeds.

Even a crusted river, hard as dolerite thaws
and courses in spring, but you only hear loss—

give it up, your frozen riverbed, you are in some lost place
stuck, away from lambent light, when all around you

snow melts, creatures howl, nature rumbles—
wade upriver, even if you have to break the ice.