Mountain Streams

By Gene Washington

Forget the path or road.

Bushwhack through sage and willows

And walk into the stream.

 

The thing about a stream is

It knows where it’s going, has a gift

For finding the shortest route.

 

A path or road can lose its nerve.

Peter out into a thicket or slough, divide

Inscrutably in two. I’ve stood at that place

 

And weighed the choices, weighed

And checked again, while mist crawled

Over the mountains like sheep.   

 

When the stream divides

Both streamlets are equally sure.

Each wins its own way: the slick of moss

 

The fast rush over an edge of rock

And each, if you let it.

Will take you home.