The Dog

nudges my pen hand as if saying, 'begin,'sniffing the empty page, gives me hintswhere to start. The head of the riverwhere it trickles from the rocksisn't necessary. 'Go downstream,' she nudges againaround the bend where the water has forgottenabout flowing slowly, and beats itself whiteAgainst the boulders. You can stayall day on shore, hesitant, resistingthat first chill, and go home disappointedyou didn't try. Or you can step in onany phrase that passes, and then move onto the next, not knowing if there's sensein any of it. Eddies are just that.The river is more than cold water over stone.When the rush of the water is deafening,and you forget the river you are in.