Along Flathead River
fish, like liquid stars, streak
along the calm plane of sky-water.
Hot September day, chilled green sheaths
of fluid light, I write for this
sweet Montana afternoon.
Rocks, bundled by moss beneath the water,
nestle into the squelch like scattered
treasure. I ripple my feet,
shimmer the taut foil
in a bright rhythm.
Minnows trip along the crest
on a languid bug hunt:
persistent as woodpeckers,
buoyant as moths.