The poem
We enter the green river, heron harbor, mud-basin lined with snagheaps, where turtles sun themselves--we push through the falling silky weight striped warm and cold bounding down through the black flanks of wet rocks--we wade under hemlock and white pine--climb stone steps into the timeless castles of emerald eddies, swirls, channels cold as ice tumbling out of a white flow-- sheer sheets flying off rocks, frivolous and lustrous, skirting the secret pools-- cradles full of the yellow hair of last year's leaves where grizzled fish hang halfway down, like tarnished swords, while around them fingerlings sparkle and descend, nails of light in the loose racing waters.