While I'm standing near Canoe Creek, I hear the water running under the ice and, of course, also think about the big picture and the small picture simultaneously.
River
river water rolls under the ice, over the rocks,
falling, falling on its way to the lake
drawn downward, rolling stones
round boulders and over –
the lake does not fill up
the river does not run dry
even now, in winter, when snow lands
firmly on the ground and stays until April
when the trees have given up their leaves,
their roots frozen in the ground
water slides
beneath the ice