Above Lake Tahoe, out of its blue eye, I sit
on granite clumps of rock. You are resting
beside the river. I read James Wright. You
are writing on that yellow pad of blue-veined
paper. Do you hear the river talking?
It rushes at us like life. We are listening
to the swell and call of water, white in its hurry
to the Great Basin—water willing to sink
or disappear into air. Cottonwood and willow
line the banks, green that collects the late afternoon
light, a puzzle of leaves and shadow. We are touched
by shadow. On every lip of rock, water hangs
its name. Who will say it? Arcs of snow
melt into July. The green pours.