The Androscoggin flows, cliff-sheltered,
hidden by a thickness of great pointed firs,
so we cannot see it from our windows
though we know it’s there. Sometimes we hear
after a freakish torrent of hard rain
its rushing over rocks—the ones we hop
when crossing—and we’re sidelined for awhile.
The local ducks, deer, foxes, skunks
don’t seem to mind; they let the river
have it’s way—grow wider, deeper,
curving slippery as silk over the falls,
roaring down to swirls of sudsy turbulence
then calming to black pools of mystery.
Only the hand that winds the clock of thought,
the sleepless eyes that worry out the window,
know an urge to push the river toward the sea,
while among the firs, small bright eyes
caught on the dark like stars fallen to earth,
watch, and don’t agree or disagree.