Billingsley Creek

No wonder rivers
Charm philosophers.
This water rushing
From black basalt cliffs
Over tumbled rocks
Foams so fast it seems
One perpetual

Marbled solid thing.
Eye catches motion
While mind feels sculpture,
Cold and perfect source
Of fond metaphors
From Heraclitus,
Buddha, and proverbs

In a thousand tongues.
Cross the old footbridge
To the cottonwood-
Anchored green island
Where the endless roar
Surrounds you and wait.
The past is changing.