the river rises

moon,

the river rises

in mist

behind  alders

and birch

while the sun,

open-mouthed,

spreads

the skirts

of the unharvested.

soon,

 the gray

that rises

 will vanish.

soon

the night

will vie

for its hours

 again

and all the sky

pass by—

it has been hot

these past days

and I wonder:

do the trees

miss the snow?

Do they ask

their cool

roots about

the silk of

the river?

and do the roots,

penetrating

    the impacted

 dark

ask their branches

about the sun

and the live flight

of birds?