Magical Thinking Replies

Where there is leisure for fact
There is little grief. The purl
Of the high-altitude creek
Past the snowmelt and aspens
Carries itself down canyon
To the inevitable
While storing away water

In the roots along the way.
White-bark fingers glow in the sun
For now as it slides from them.
It's not foolish to notice
The light that will go away
Will come back, whether or not
We will be there to feel it.